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John  and  Mary  Prescott 


THE  SKY   PILOT 


By  same  Author 

Bleick  Rock: 

A  TALK  or  THE  SELKIRKS 
New  Com  plete  Edition.    Illustrated  by  Louis  Rbead 

"THE  author  veils  his  identity  under  the  assumed  name 
of  'Ralph  Connor.'  He  need  not  be  ashamed  of  his 
handiwork.  It  has  rarely  been  our  good  fjrtune  to  come 
across  a  book  in  which  the  freshest  humor,  the  truest 
pathos  and  the  most  exquisite  tenderness  are  so  fully  dis- 
played."— Literature. 

"  '  BLACK.  ROCK. '  is  a  book  on  which  author  and 
publisher  alike  are  to  be  congratulated." — The  Church- 
man, Nc?u  York. 

"WHO  it  is  that  hides  behind  the  assumed  name  of 
'Ralph  Connor*  we  have  no  means  of  knowing;  bat, 
whatever  it  is,  the  cause  of  righteousness  is  his  debtor. 
The  book  is  well  written.  It  is  vital.  It  has 
t'>  do  with  real  men  and  women  and  with  living  issues." — 
The  Stand.ird,  Chicago. 

"  THti  literary  workmanship  is  of  a  high  quality  and 
betokens  a  strong  ethical  insight.  Rarely  has  a  novel 
with  such  a  motive  been  so  successful  in  conception  and 
treatment." — The  Transcript,  Boston. 

"  WITH  perfect  wholesomeness,  with  entire  fidelity, 
with  truest  pathos,  with  freshest  humor,  he  has  delineated 
character,  has  analyzed  motives  and  emotions,  and  has 
portrayed  life.  Some  of  his  characters  deserve  immortality, 
so  faithfully  are  they  created." — St  Louis  Globe  Democrat. 

"  YOU  will  never  put  it  down  if  you  once  begin  it." 
—  Cb-istian  Observer. 

"  FULL  of  dramatic  power." — The  Mail  and  Empire, 
Toronto, 

J2mo,  cloth,   $1.25.       Popular  edition,  paper,   25  cents; 
cloth,  jo  cents. 

FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


"A  WILDER  JU.HP  THAN  USUAL  THREW  MY  CAPE  OVER  MY  HEAD  so 

THAT   I  WAS  IN  COMPLETE  DARKNESS." 


T 


HE  SKY  PILOT:  a  tale 
of  the  Foothills  .   .    by 
Ralph  Connor  ^s 

!££>     W\HWYVL 


Author  of 
"Black  Rock" 


Illustrated  by 
Louis  Rhead 


Pi 

s 

p** 

R-? 

n 

VITA  I 

© 

LUX 

Chicago :  New  York :  Toronto 
Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 
1900 


TR 


05 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 

BY 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

The  measure  of  a  man's  power  to  help  his 
brother  is  the  measure  of  the  love  in  the  heart  of 
him  and  of  the  faith  he  has  that  at  last  the  good 
will  win.  With  this  love  that  seeks  not  its  own 
and  this  faith  that  grips  the  heart  of  things,  he 
goes  out  to  meet  many  fortunes,  but  not  that  of 
defeat. 

This  story  is  of  the  people  of  the  Foothill 
Country;  of  those  men  of  adventurous  spirit,  who 
left  homes  of  comfort,  often  of  luxury,  because  of 
the  stirring  in  them  to  be  and  to  do  some  worthy 
thing;  and  of  those  others  who,  outcast  from 
their  kind,  sought  to  find  in  these  valleys,  remote 
and  lonely,  a  spot  where  they  could  forget  and  be 
forgotten. 

The  waving  skyline  of  the  Foothills  was  the 
boundary  of  their  lookout  upon  life.  Here  they 
dwelt  safe  from  the  scanning  of  the  world,  freed 
from  all  restraints  of  social  law,  denied  the 
gentler  influences  of  home  and  the  sweet  uplift  of 
a  good  woman's  face.  What  wonder  if,  with  the 


Preface 

new  freedom  beating  in  their  hearts  and  ears, 
some  rode  fierce  and  hard  the  wild  trail  to  the 
cut-bank  of  destruction ! 

The  story  is,  too,  of  how  a  man  with  vision 
beyond  the  waving  skyline  came  to  them  with 
firm  purpose  to  play  the  brother's  part,  and  by 
sheer  love  of  them  and  by  faith  in  them,  win 
them  to  believe  that  life  is  priceless,  and  that  it  is 
good  to  be  a  man. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Foothills  Country 1 1 

II.  The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven       .        .         25 

III.  The  Coming  of  the  Pilot  .     33 

IV.  The  Pilot's  Measure 45 

V.  First  Blood        .        .        .        .        .        .      ».     55 

VI.     His  Second  Wind 69 

VII.  The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays    ...     79 

VIII.     The  Pilot's  Grip 91 

IX.     Gwen 107 

X.  Gwen's  First  Prayers           ....       123 

XI.  Gwen's  Challenge    ...                         .  139 

XII.     Gwen's  Canyon 155 

XIII.  The  Canyon  Flowers 169 

XIV.  Bill's  Bluff 183 

XV.     Bill's  Partner 199 

XVI.     Bill's  Financing 209 

XVII.     How  the  Pinto  Sold 221 

XVIII.     The  Lady  Charlotte 231 

XIX.  Through  Gwen's  Window       .        .        .        .241 

XX.  How  Bill  Favored  "Home-Grown  Industries"  257 

XXI.     How  Bill  Hit  the  Trail 267 

XXII.  How  the  Swan  Creek  Church  was  Opened    .  279 

XXIII.  The  Pilot's  Last  Port          ...        .287 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"A  WILDER  JUMP  THAN  USUAL  THREW 
MY  CAPE  OVER  MY  HEAD  SO  THAT  I 
WAS  IN  COMPLETE  DARKNESS"  .  .  Frontispiece 

"I  SAY,  BRUCE,  LET'S  QUIT"  .       .       .    facing  page    63 
"THE  NEXT  MOMENT  SHE  LAY  CHOKING 

ON  THE  PLAINS" "         "      117 

"!T  WAS  HER  MOTHER'S  SONG"  "         "      130 

"NOW,    GWEN,    TRY   AND   SEE   IT  AS   I 

READ  " "  "        175 

"THEN,  LEANING  ON  THE   PULPIT,   HK 

SAID,  'LET'S  PRAY'"  "         "     382 


The  Sky  Pilot 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   FOOTHILLS   COUNTRY 

Beyond  the  great  prairies  and  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Rockies  lie  the  Foothills.  For  nine  hundred 
miles  the  prairies  spread  themselves  out  in  vast 
level  reaches,  and  then  begin  to  climb  over  softly 
rounded  mounds  that  ever  grow  higher  and  sharper 
till,  here  and  there,  they  break  into  jagged  points 
and  at  last  rest  upon  the  great  bases  of  the 
mighty  mountains.  These  rounded  hills  that  join 
the  prairies  to  the  mountains  form  the  Foothill 
Country.  They  extend  for  about  a  hundred  miles 
only,  but  no  other  hundred  miles  of  the  great 
West  are  so  full  of  interest  and  romance.  The 
natural  features  of  the  country  combine  the 
beauties  of  prairie  and  of  mountain  scenery. 
There  are  valleys  so  wide  that  *he  farther  side 


12  The  Sky  Pilot 

melts  into  the  horizon,  and  uplands  so  vast  as  to 
suggest  the  unbroken  prairie.  Nearer  the  moun- 
tains the  valleys  dip  deep  and  ever  deeper  till  they 
narrow  into  canyons  through  which  mountain 
torrents  pour  their  blue-gray  waters  from 
glaciers  that  lie  glistening  between  the  white 
peaks  far  away.  Here  are  the  great  ranges  on 
which  feed  herds  of  cattle  and  horses.  Here  are 
the  homes  of  the  ranchmen,  in  whose  wild,  free, 
lonely  existence  there  mingles  much  of  the 
tragedy  and  comedy,  the  humor  and  pathos,  that 
go  to  make  up  the  romance  of  life.  Among  them 
are  to  be  found  the  most  enterprising,  the  most 
daring,  of  the  peoples  of  the  old  lands.  The 
broken,  the  outcast,  the  disappointed,  these  too 
have  found  their  way  to  the  ranches  among  the 
Foothills.  A  country  it  is  whose  sunlit  hills  and 
shaded  valleys  reflect  themselves  in  the  lives  of 
its  people;  for  nowhere  are  the  contrasts  of 
light  and  shade  more  vividly  seen  than  in  the 
homes  of  the  ranchmen  of  the  Albertas. 

The  experiences  of  my  life  have  confirmed  in 
me  the  orthodox  conviction  that  Providence  sends 
his  rain  upon  the  evil  as  upon  the  good;  else  I 
should  never  have  set  my  eyes  upon  the  Foothill 
country,  nor  touched  its  strangely  fascinating  life, 


The  Foothills  Country  13 

nor  come  to  know  and  love  the  most  striking 
man  of  all  that  group  of  striking  men  of  the  Foot- 
hill country — the  dear  old  Pilot,  as  we  came  to  call 
him  long  afterwards.  My  first  year  in  college 
closed  in  gloom.  My  guardian  was  in  despair. 
From  this  distance  of  years  I  pity  him.  Then  I 
considered  him  unnecessarily  concerned  about 
me — "a  fussy  old  hen,"  as  one  of  the  boys  sug- 
gested. The  invitation  from  Jack  Dale,  a  distant 
cousin,  to  spend  a  summer  with  him  on  his  ranch 
in  South  Alberta  came  in  the  nick  of  time.  I 
was  wild  to  go.  My  guardian  hesitated  long;  but 
no  other  solution  of  the  problem  of  my  disposal 
offering,  he  finally  agreed  that  I  could  not  well 
get  into  more  trouble  by  going  than  by  staying. 
Hence  it  was  that,  in  the  early  summer  of  one  of 
the  eighties,  I  found  myself  attached  to  a  Hud- 
son's Bay  Company  freight  train,  making  our 
way  from  a  little  railway  town  in  Montana 
towards  the  Canadian  boundary.  Our  train  con- 
sisted of  six  wagons  and  fourteen  yoke  of  oxen, 
with  three  cayuses,  in  charge  of  a  French  half- 
breed  and  his  son,  a  lad  of  about  sixteen.  We 
made  slow  enough  progress,  but  every  hour  of  the 
long  day,  from  the  dim,  gray,  misty  light  of  dawn 
to  the  soft  glow  of  shadowy  evening,  was  full  of 


14  The  Sky  Pilot 

?.ew  delights  to  me.  On  the  evening  of  the  third 
day  we  reached  the  Line  Stopping  Place,  where 
Jack  Dale  met  us.  I  remember  well  how  my 
heart  beat  with  admiration  of  the  easy  grace  with 
which  he  sailed  down  upon  us  in  the  loose-jointed 
cowboy  style,  swinging  his  own  bronco  and  the 
little  cayuse  he  was  leading  for  me  into  the  circle 
of  the  wagons,  careless  of  ropes  and  freight  and 
other  impedimenta.  He  flung  himself  off  before 
his  bronco  had  come  to  a  stop,  and  gave  me  a 
grip  that  made  me  sure  of  my  welcome.  It  was 
years  since  he  had  seen  a  man  from  home,  and 
the  eager  joy  in  his  eyes  told  of  long  days  and 
nights  of  lonely  yearning  for  the  old  days  and  the 
old  faces.  I  came  to  understand  this  better  after 
my  two  years'  stay  among  these  hills  that  have  a 
strange  power  on  some  days  to  waken  in  a  man 
longings  that  make  his  heart  grow  sick.  When 
supper  was  over  we  gathered  about  the  little  fire, 
while  Jack  and  the  half-breed  smoked  and  talked. 
I  lay  on  my  back  looking  up  at  the  pale,  steady 
stars  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky,  and 
listened  in  fullness  of  contented  delight  to  the 
chat  between  Jack  and  the  driver.  Now  and  then 
I  asked  a  question,  but  not  too  often.  It  is  a 
listening  silence  that  draws  tales  from  a  western 


The  Foothills  Country  15 

man,  not  vexing  questions.  This  much  I  had 
learned  already  from  my  three  days'  travel.  So 
I  lay  and  listened,  and  the  tales  of  that  night  are 
mingled  with  the  warm  evening  lights  and  the 
pale  stars  and  the  thoughts  of  home  that  Jack's 
coming  seemed  to  bring. 

Next  morning  before  sun-up  we  had  broken 
camp  and  were  ready  for  our  fifty-mile  ride. 
There  was  a  slight  drizzle  of  rain  and,  though 
rain  and  shine  were  alike  to  him,  Jack  insisted 
that  I  should  wear  my  mackintosh.  This  gar- 
ment was  quite  new  and  had  a  loose  cape  which 
rustled  as  I  moved  toward  my  cayuse.  He  was 
an  ugly-looking  little  animal,  with  more  white  in 
his  eye  than  I  cared  to  see.  Altogether,  I  did  not 
draw  toward  him.  Nor  did  he  to  me,  appar- 
ently. For  as  I  took  him  by  the  bridle  he 
snorted  and  sidled  about  with  great  swiftness, 
and  stood  facing  me  with  his  feet  planted  firmly 
in  front  of  him  as  if  prepared  to  reject  overtures 
of  any  kind  soever.  I  tried  to  approach  him  with 
soothing  words,  but  he  persistently  backed  away 
unlil  we  stood  looking  at  each  other  at  the  utmost 
distance  of  his  outstretched  neck  and  my  out- 
stretched arm.  At  this  point  Jack  came  to  my 
assistance,  got  the  pony  by  the  other  side  of  the 


16  The  Sky  Pilot 

bridle,  and  held  him  fast  till  I  got  into  position  to 
mount.  Taking  a  firm  grip  of  the  horn  of  the 
Mexican  saddle,  I  threw  my  leg  over  his  back. 
The  next  instant  I  was  flying  over  his  head.  My 
only  emotion  was  one  of  surprise,  the  thing  was 
so  unexpected.  I  had  fancied  myself  a  fair 
rider,  having  had  experience  of  farmers'  colts  of 
divers  kinds,  but  this  was  something  quite  new. 
The  half-breed  stood  looking  on,  mildly  interested ; 
Jack  was  smiling,  but  the  boy  was  grinning  with 
delight. 

"I'll  take  the  little  beast,"  said  Jack.  But  the 
grinning  boy  braced  me  up  and  I  replied  as  care- 
lessly as  my  shaking  voice  would  allow: 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'll  manage  him,"  and  once  more 
got  into  position.  But  no  sooner  had  I  got  into 
the  saddle  than  the  pony  sprang  straight  up  into 
the  air  and  lit  with  his  back  curved  into  a  bow, 
his  four  legs  gathered  together  and  so  absolutely 
rigid  that  the  shock  made  my  teeth  rattle.  It 
was  my  first  experience  of  "bucking."  Then  the 
little  brute  went  seriously  to  work  to  get  rid  of 
the  rustling,  flapping  thing  on  his  back.  He 
would  back  steadily  for  some  seconds,  then,  with 
two  or  three  forward  plunges,  he  would  stop  as 
if  shot  and  spring  straight  into  the  upper  air. 


The  Foothills  Country  17 

lighting  with  back  curved  and  legs  rigid  as  iron. 
Then  he  would  walk  on  his  hind  legs  for  a  few 
steps,  then  throw  himself  with  amazing  rapidity 
to  one  side  and  again  proceed  to  buck  with  vicious 
diligence. 

"Stick  to  him!"  yelled  Jack,  through  his  shouts 
of  laughter.  "You'll  make  him  sick  before  long. " 

I  remember  thinking  that  unless  his  insides 
were  somewhat  more  delicately  organized  than  his 
external  appearance  would  lead  one  to  suppose 
the  chances  were  that  the  little  brute  would  be 
the  last  to  succumb  to  sickness.  To  make  matters 
worse,  a  wilder  jump  than  ordinary  threw  my 
cape  up  over  my  head,  so  that  I  was  in  complete 
darkness.  And  now  he  had  me  at  his  mercy,  and 
he  knew  no  pity.  He  kicked  and  plunged  and 
reared  and  bucked,  now  on  his  front  legs,  now  on 
his  hind  legs,  often  on  his  knees,  while  I,  in  the 
darkness,  could  only  cling  to  the  horn  of  the 
saddle.  At  last,  in  one  of  the  gleams  of  light 
that  penetrated  the  folds  of  my  enveloping  cape, 
I  found  that  the  horn  had  slipped  to  his  side,  so 
the  next  time  he  came  to  his  knees  I  threw  myself 
off.  I  am  anxious  to  make  this  point  clear,  for, 
from  the  expression  of  triumph  on  the  face  of  the 
grinning  boy,  and  his  encomiums  of  the  pony,  I 


1 8  The  Sky  Pilot 

gathered  that  he  scored  a  win  for  the  cayuse. 
Without  pause  that  little  brute  continued  for 
some  seconds  to  buck  and  plunge  even  after  my 
dismounting,  as  if  he  were  some  piece  of  mech- 
anism that  must  run  down  before  it  could  stop. 

By  this  time  I  was  sick  enough  and  badly 
shaken  in  my  nerve,  but  the  triumphant  shouts 
and  laughter  of  the  boy  and  the  complacent 
smiles  on  the  faces  of  Jack  and  the  half-breed 
stirred  my  wrath.  I  tore  off  the  cape  and,  hav- 
ing got  the  saddle  put  right,  seized  Jack's  riding 
whip  and,  disregarding  his  remonstrances,  sprang 
on  my  steed  once  more,  and  before  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  as  to  his  line  of  action  plied  him  so 
vigorously  with  the  rawhide  that  he  set  off  over 
the  prairie  at  full  gallop,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
came  round  to  the  camp  quite  subdued,  to  the 
boy's  great  disappointment  and  to  my  own  great 
surprise.  Jack  was  highly  pleased,  and  even  the 
stolid  face  of  the  half-breed  showed  satisfaction. 

"Don't  think  I  put  this  up  on  you,"  Jack  said. 
"It  was  that  cape.  He  ain't  used  to  such  frills. 
But  it  was  a  circus,"  he  added,  going  off  into  a 
fit  of  laughter,  "worth  five  dollars  any  day." 

"You  bet!"  said  the  half-breed.  "Dat's  make 
pretty  beeg  fun,  eh?" 


The  Foothills  Country  19 

It  seemed  to  me  that  it  depended  somewhat 
upon  the  point  of  view,  but  I  merely  agreed  with 
him,  only  too  glad  to  be  so  well  out  of  the  fight. 

All  day  we  followed  the  trail  that  wound  along 
the  shoulders  of  the  round- topped  hills  or  down 
their  long  slopes  into  the  wide, grassy  valleys.  Here 
and  there  the  valleys  were  cut  through  by  coulees 
through  which  ran  swift,  blue-gray  rivers,  clear 
and  icy  cold,  while  from  the  hilltops  we  caught 
glimpses  of  little  lakes  covered  with  wild-fowl 
that  shrieked  and  squawked  and  splashed,  care- 
less of  danger.  Now  and  then  we  saw  what  made 
a  black  spot  against  the  green  of  the  prairie,  and 
Jack  told  me  it  was  a  rancher's  shack.  How 
remote  from  the  great  world,  and  how  lonely  it 
seemed! — this  little  black  shack  among  these 
multitudinous  hills. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  summer  evening  when 
Jack  and  I  rode  into  Swan  Creek.  I  say  into — 
but  the  village  was  almost  entirely  one  of  imag- 
ination, in  that  it  consisted  of  the  Stopping  Place, 
a  long  log  building,  a  story  and  a  half  high,  with 
stables  behind,  and  the  store  in  which  the  post- 
office  was  kept  and  over  which  the  owner  dwelt. 
But  the  situation  was  one  of  great  beauty.  On 
one  side  the  prairie  rambled  down  from  the  hills 


20  The  Sky  Pilot 

and  then  stretched  away  in  tawny  levels  into  the 
misty  purple  at  the  horizon;  on  the  other  it 
clambered  over  the  round,  sunny  tops  to  the  dim 
blue  of  the  mountains  beyond. 

In  this  world,  where  it  is  impossible  to  reach 
absolute  values,  we  are  forced  to  hold  things 
relatively,  and  in  contrast  with  the  long,  lonely 
miles  of  our  ride  during  the  day  these  two 
houses,  with  their  outbuildings,  seemed  a  center 
of  life.  Some  horses  were  tied  to  the  rail  that 
ran  along  in  front  of  the  Stopping  Place. 

"Hello!"  said  Jack,  "I  guess  the  Noble  Seven 
are  in  town." 

"And  who  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  with  a  shrug,  "they  are  the 
dite  of  Swan  Creek;  and  by  Jove,"  he  added, 
"this  must  be  a  Permit  Night." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  asked,  as  we  rode  up 
towards  the  tie  rail. 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  in  a  low  tone,  for  some  men 
were  standing  about  the  door,  "you  see,  this  is  a 
prohibition  country,  but  when  one  of  the  boys 
feels  as  if  he  were  going  to  have  a  spell  of  sick- 
ness he  gets  a  permit  to  bring  in  a  few  gallons 
for  medicinal  purposes;  and  of  course,  the  other 
boys  being  similarly  exposed,  he  invites  them  to 


The  Foothills  Country  21 

assist  him  in  taking  preventive  measures.  And, ' ' 
added  Jack,  with  a  solemn  wink,  "it  is  remark- 
able, in  a  healthy  country  like  this,  how  many 
epidemics  come  near  ketching  us. ' ' 

And  with  this  mystifying  explanation  we  joined 
the  mysterious  company  of  the  Noble  Seven. 


The  Company  of  the  Noble 
Seven 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    COMPANY    OF    THE   NOBLE   SEVEB7 

As  we  were  dismounting,  the  cries,  "Hello, 
Jack!"  "How  do,  Dale?"  "Hello,  old  Smoke!" 
in  the  heartiest  of  tones,  made  me  see  that  my 
cousin  was  a  favorite  with  the  men  grouped  about 
the  door.  Jack  simply  nodded  in  reply  and  then 
presented  me  in  due  form.  "My  tenderfoot 
cousin  from  the  effete,"  he  said,  with  a  flourish. 
I  was  surprised  at  the  grace  of  the  bows  made  me 
by  these  roughly-dressed,  wild-looking  fellows. 
I  might  have  been  in  a  London  drawing-room. 
I  was  put  at  my  ease  at  once  by  the  kindliness  of 
their  greeting,  for,  upon  Jack's  introduction,  I 
was  admitted  at  once  into  their  circle,  which,  to  a 
tenderfoot,  was  usually  closed. 

What  a  hardy-looking  lot  they  were !  Brown, 
spare,  sinewy  and  hard  as  nails,  they  appeared 
like  soldiers  back  from  a  hard  campaign.  They 
moved  and  spoke  with  an  easy,  careless  air  of 
almost  lazy  indifference,  but  their  eyes  had  a  trick 

25 


26  The  Sky  Pilot 

of  looking  straight  out  at  you,  cool  and  fearless, 
and  you  felt  they  were  fit  and  ready. 

That  night  I  was  initiated  into  the  Company  of 
the  Noble  Seven — but  of  the  ceremony  I  regret  to 
say  I  retain  but  an  indistinct  memory;  for  they 
drank  as  they  rode,  hard  and  long,  and  it  was 
only  Jack's  care  that  got  me  safely  home  that 
night. 

The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven  was  the 
dominant  social  force  in  the  Swan  Creek  country. 
Indeed,  it  was  the  only  social  force  Swan  Creek 
knew.  Originally  consisting  of  seven  young  fel- 
lows of  the  best  blood  of  Britain,  "banded  together 
for  purposes  of  mutual  improvement  and  social 
enjoyment,"  it  had  changed  its  character  during 
the  years,  but  not  its  name.  First,  its  member- 
ship was  extended  to  include  "approved  colo- 
nials," such  as  Jack  Dale  and  "others  of 
kindred  spirit,"  under  which  head,  I  suppose,  the 
two  cowboys  from  the  Ashley  Ranch,  Hi  Kendal 
and  "Bronco"  Bill — no  one  knew  and  no  one  asked 
his  other  name — were  admitted.  Then  its  pur- 
poses gradually  limited  themselves  to  those  of  a 
social  nature,  chiefly  in  the  line  of  poker-playing 
and  whisky-drinking.  Well  born  and  delicately 
bred  in  that  atmosphere  of  culture  mingled  with 


The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven       27 

a  sturdy  common  sense  and  a  certain  high 
chivalry  which  surrounds  the  stately  homes  of 
Britain,  these  young  lads,  freed  from  the 
restraints  of  custom  and  surrounding,  soon  shed 
all  that  was  superficial  in  their  make-up  and 
stood  forth  in  the  naked  simplicity  of  their  native 
manhood.  The  West  discovered  and  revealed  the 
man  in  them,  sometimes  to  their  honor,  often  to 
their  shame.  The  Chief  of  the  Company  was  the 
Hon.  Fred  Ashley,  of  the  Ashley  Ranch,  some- 
time of  Ashley  Court,  England — a  big,  good- 
natured  man  with  a  magnificent  physique,  a  good 
income  from  home,  and  a  beautiful  wife,  the 
Lady  Charlotte,  daughter  of  a  noble  English 
family.  At  the  Ashley  Ranch  the  traditions  of 
Ashley  Court  were  preserved  as  far  as  possible. 
The  Hon.  Fred  appeared  at  the  wolf-hunts  in 
riding-breeches  and  top  boots,  with  hunting  crop 
and  English  saddle,  while  in  all  the  appointments 
of  the  house  the  customs  of  the  English  home 
were  observed.  It  was  characteristic,  however, 
of  western  life  that  his  two  cowboys,  Hi  Kendal 
and  Bronco  Bill,  felt  themselves  quite  his  social 
equals,  though  in  the  presence  of  his  beautiful, 
stately  wife  they  confessed  that  they  "rather 
weakened. ' '  Ashley  was  a  thoroughly  good  f el- 


28  The  Sky  Pilot 

low,  well  up  to  his  work  as  a  cattle-man,  and  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  feel,  much  less  assert, 
any  suneriority  of  station.  He  had  the  largest 
ranch  in  the  country  and  was  one  of  the  few  men 
making  money. 

Ashley's  chief  friend,  or,  at  leastv  most  fre- 
quent companion,  was  a  man  whom  they  called 
"The  Duke."  No  one  knew  his  name,  but  every 
one  said  he  was  "the  son  of  a  lord,"  and  certainly 
from  his  style  and  bearing  he  might  be  the  son  of 
almost  anything  that  was  high  enough  in  rank. 
He  drew  "a  remittance,"  but,  as  that  was  paid 
through  Ashley,  no  one  knew  whence  it  came  nor 
how  much  it  was.  He  was  a  perfect  picture  of  a 
man,  and  in  all  western  virtues  was  easily  first. 
He  could  rope  a  steer,  bunch  cattle,  play  poker 
or  drink  whisky  to  the  admiration  of  his  friends 
and  the  confusion  of  his  foes,  of  whom  he  had  a 
few;  while  as  to  "bronco  busting,"  the  virtue 
par  excellence  of  western  cattle-men,  even 
Bronco  Bill  was  heard  to  acknowledge  that  "he 
wasn't  in  it  with  the  Book,  for  it  was  his  opinion 
that  he  could  ride  any  thin'  that  had  legs  in  under 
it,  even  if  it  was  a  blanked  centipede."  And  this, 
coming  from  one  who  made  a  profession  of 
"bronco  busting,"  was  unquestionably  high 


The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven        29 

praise.  The  Duke  lived  alone,  except  when  he 
deigned  to  pay  a  visit  to  some  lonely  rancher 
who,  for  the  marvellous  charm  of  his  talk,  was 
delighted  to  have  him  as  guest,  even  at  the 
expense  of  the  loss  of  a  few  games  at  poker.  He 
made  a  friend  of  no  one,  though  some  men  could 
tell  of  times  when  he  stood  between  them  and 
their  last  dollar,  exacting  only  the  promise  that 
no  mention  should  be  made  of  his  deed.  He  had 
an  easy,  lazy  manner  and  a  slow  cynical  smile 
that  rarely  left  his  face,  and  the  only  sign  of 
deepening  passion  in  him  was  a  little  broadening 
of  his  smile.  Old  Latour,  who  kept  the  Stopping 
Place,  told  me  how  once  The  Duke  had  broken  into 
a  gentle  laugh.  A  French  half-breed  freighter  on 
his  way  north  had  entered  into  a  game  of  poker 
with  The  Duke,  with  the  result  that  his  six 
months'  pay  stood  in  a  little  heap  at  his  enemy's 
left  hand.  The  enraged  freighter  accused  his 
smiling  opponent  of  being  a  cheat,  and  was  pro- 
ceeding to  demolish  him  with  one  mighty  blow. 
But  The  Duke,  still  smiling,  and  without  moving 
from  his  chair,  caught  the  descending  fist,  slowly 
crushed  the  fingers  open,  and  steadily  drew  the 
Frenchman  to  his  knees,  gripping  him  so  cruelly 
in  the  meantime  that  he  was  forced  to  cry  aloud 


30  The  Sky  Pilot 

in  agony  for  mercy.  Then  it  was  that  The  Duke 
broke  into  a  light  laugh  and,  touching  the  kneel- 
ing Frenchman  on  his  cheek  with  his  finger-tips, 
said:  "Look  here,  my  man,  you  shouldn't  play 
the  game  till  you  know  how  to  do  it  and  with 
whom  you  play."  Then,  handing  him  back  the 
money,  he  added :  "I  want  money,  but  not  yours." 
Then,  as  he  sat  looking  at  the  unfortunate  wretch 
dividing  his  attention  between  his  money  and  his 
bleeding  fingers,  he  once  more  broke  into  a 
gentle  laugh  that  was  not  good  to  hear. 

The  Duke  was  by  all  odds  the  most  striking 
figure  in  the  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven,  and 
his  word  went  farther  than  that  of  any  other. 
His  shadow  was  Bruce,  an  Edinburgh  University 
man,  metaphysical,  argumentative,  persistent, 
devoted  to  The  Duke.  Indeed,  his  chief  ambi- 
tion was  to  attain  to  The  Duke's  high  and  lordly 
manner;  but,  inasmuch  as  he  was  rather  squat  in 
figure  and  had  an  open,  good-natured  face  and  a 
Scotch  voice  of  the  hard  and  rasping  kind,  his 
attempts  at  imitation  were  not  conspicuously  suc- 
cessful. Every  mail  that  reached  Swan  Creek 
brought  him  a  letter  from  home.  At  first,  after 
I  had  got  to  know  him,  he  would  give  me  now 
and  then  a  letter  to  read,  but  as  the  tone  became 


The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven       31 

more  and  more  anxious  he  ceased  to  let  me  read 
them,  and  I  was  glad  enough  of  this.  How  he 
could  read  those  letters  and  go  the  pace  of  the 
Noble  Seven  I  could  not  see.  Poor  Bruce !  He 
had  good  impulses,  a  generous  heart,  but  the 
"Permit"  nights  and  the  hunts  and  the  "round- 
ups" and  the  poker  and  all  the  wild  excesses  of 
the  Company  were  more  than  he  could  stand. 

Then  there  were  the  two  Hill  brothers,  the 
younger,  Bertie,  a  fair-haired,  bright-faced 
youngster,  none  too  able  to  look  after  himself, 
but  much  inclined  to  follies  of  all  degrees  and 
sorts.  But  he  was  warm-hearted  and  devoted  to 
his  big  brother,  Humphrey,  called  "Hump,"  who 
had  taken  to  ranching  mainly  with  the  idea  of 
looking  after  his  younger  brother.  And  no  easy 
matter  that  was,  for  every  one  liked  the  lad 
and  in  consequence  helped  him  down. 

In  addition  to  these  there  were  two  others  of 
the  original  seven,  but  by  force  of  circumstances 
they  were  prevented  from  any  more  than  a 
nominal  connection  with  the  Company.  Blake, 
a  typical  wild  Irishman,  had  joined  the  police  at 
the  Fort,  and  Gifford  had  got  married  and,  as  Bill 
said,  "was  roped  tighter'n  a  steer." 

The  Noble   Company,  with  the  cowboys  that 


32  The  Sky  Pilot 

helped  on  the  range  and  two  or  three  farmers 
that  lived  nearer  the  Fort,  composed  the  settlers 
of  the  Swan  Creek  country.  A  strange  medley 
of  people  of  all  ranks  and  nations,  but  while 
among  them  there  were  the  evil-hearted  and  evil- 
living,  still,  for  the  Noble  Company  I  will  say 
that  never  have  I  fallen  in  with  men  braver, 
truer,  or  of  warmer  heart.  Vices  they  had,  all  too 
apparent  and  deadly,  but  they  were  due  rather  to 
the  circumstances  of  their  lives  than  to  the  native 
tendencies  of  their  hearts.  Throughout  that 
summer  and  the  winter  following  I  lived  among 
them,  camping  on  the  range  with  them  and 
sleeping  in  their  shacks,  bunching  cattle  in  sum- 
mer and  hunting  wolves  in  winter,  nor  did  I, 
for  I  was  no  wiser  than  they,  refuse  my  part  on 
"Permit"  nights;  but  through  all  not  a  man  of 
them  ever  failed  to  be  true  to  his  standard  of 
honor  in  the  duties  of  comradeship  and  brother- 
hood. 


The  Coming  of  the  Pilot 


33 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   COMING    OF    THE   PILOT 

He  was  the  first  missionary  ever  seen  in  the 
country,  and  it  was  the  Old  Timer  who  named 
him.  The  Old  Timer's  advent  to  the  Foothill 
country  was  prehistoric,  and  his  influence  was,  in 
consequence,  immense.  No  one  ventured  to  dis- 
agree with  him,  for  to  disagree  with  the  Old 
Timer  was  to  write  yourself  down  a  tenderfoot, 
which  no  one,  of  course,  cared  to  do.  It  was  a 
misfortune  which  only  time  could  repair  to  be  a 
new-comer,  and  it  was  every  new-comer's  aim  to 
assume  with  all  possible  speed  the  style  and  cus- 
toms of  the  aristocratic  Old  Timers,  and  to  forget 
as  soon  as  possible  the  date  of  his  own  arrival. 
So  it  was  as  "The  Sky  Pilot,"  familiarly  "The 
Pilot, ' '  that  the  missionary  went  for  many  a  day 
in  the  Swan  Creek  country. 

I  had  become  schoolmaster  of  Swan  Creek. 
For  in  the  spring  a  kind  Providence  sent  in  the 
Muirs  and  the  Bremans  with,  housefulsof  children, 

'     35 


36  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  the  ranchers'  disgust,  for  they  foresaw  ploughed 
fields  and  barbed-wire  fences  cramping  their 
unlimited  ranges.  A  school  became  necessary. 
A  little  log  building  was  erected  and  I  was 
appointed  schoolmaster.  It  was  as  schoolmaster 
that  I  first  came  to  touch  The  Pilot,  for  the  letter 
which  the  Hudson  Bay  freighters  brought  me 
early  one  summer  evening  bore  the  inscription: 

The  Schoolmaster ', 

Public  School^ 

Swan  Creek, 

Alberta. 

There  was  altogether  a  fine  air  about  the 
letter;  the  writing  was  in  fine,  small  hand,  the 
tone  was  fine,  and  thore  was  something  fine  in 
the  signature — "Arthur  Wellington  Moore. "  He 
was  glad  to  know  that  there  was  a  school  and  a 
teacher  in  Swan  Creek,  for  a  school  meant  chil- 
dren, in  whom  his  soul  delighted;  and  in  the 
teacher  he  would  find  a  friend,  and  without  a 
friend  he  could  not  live.  He  took  me  into  his 
confidence,  telling  me  that  though  he  had 
volunteered  for  this  far-away  mission  field  he  was 
not  much  of  a  preacher  and  he  was  not  at  all 


The  Coming  of  the  Pilot  37 

sure  that  he  would  succeed.  But  he  meant  to 
try,  and  he  was  charmed  at  the  prospect  of  having 
one  sympathizer  at  least.  Would  I  be  kind 
enough  to  put  up  in  some  conspicuous  place  the 
enclosed  notice,  filling  in  the  blanks  as  I  thought 
best? 

'''Divine  service  will  be  held  at  Swan  Creek 

in at  o'clock. 

All  are  cordially  invited. 

Arthur  Wellington  Moore" 
On  the  whole  I  liked  his  letter.  I  liked  its 
modest  self-depreciation  and  I  liked  its  cool 
assumption  of  my  sympathy  and  co-operation. 
But  I  was  perplexed.  I  remembered  that  Sun- 
day was  the  day  fixed  for  the  great  baseball 
match,  when  those  from  "Home,"  as  they  fondly 
called  the  land  across  the  sea  from  which  they 
had  come,  were  to  "wipe  the  earth"  with  all 
comers.  Besides,  "Divine  service"  was  an 
innovation  in  Swan  Creek  and  I  felt  sure  that, 
like  all  innovations  that  suggested  the  approach 
of  the  East,  it  would  be  by  no  means  welcome. 

However,  immediately  under  the  notice  of  the 
"Grand  Baseball  Match  for  'The  Pain  Killer'  a 
week  from  Sunday,  at  2 : 30,  Home  vs.  the 


38  The  Sky  Pilot 

World,"  I  pinned  on  the  door  of  the  Stopping 
Place  the  announcement : 

"Divine  service  will  be  held  at  Swan  Creek, 
in  the  Stopping  Place  Parlor,  a  week  from 
Sunday,  immediately  upon  the  conclusion  of 
the  baseball  match. 

"Arthur  Wellington  Moore" 

There  was  a  strange  incongruity  in  the  two, 
and  an  unconscious  challenge  as  well. 

All  next  day,  which  was  Saturday,  and,  indeed, 
during  the  following  week,  I  stood  guard  over 
my  notice,  enjoying  the  excitement  it  produced 
and  the  comments  it  called  forth.  It  was  the 
advance  wave  of  the  great  ocean  of  civilization 
which  many  of  them  had  been  glad  to  leave 
behind — some  could  have  wished  forever. 

To  Robert  Muir,  one  of  the  farmers  newly 
arrived,  the  notice  was  a  harbinger  of  good.  It 
stood  for  progress,  markets  and  a  higher  price 
for  land;  albeit  he  wondered  "hoo  he  wad  be 
keepit  up. "  But  his  hard- wrought,  quick-spoken 
little  wife  at  his  elbow  "hooted"  his  scruples 
and,  thinking  of  her  growing  lads,  welcomed 
with  unmixed  satisfaction  the  coming  of  "the 
meenister. "  Her  satisfaction  was  shared  by  all 


The  Coming  of  the  Pilot  39 

the  mothers  and  most  of  the  fathers  in  the  settle- 
ment; but  by  the  others,  and  especially  by  that 
rollicking,  roistering  crew,  the  Company  of  the 
Noble  Seven,  the  missionary's  coming  was 
viewed  with  varying  degrees  of  animosity. 
It  meant  a  limitation  of  freedom  in  their 
wildly  reckless  living.  The  "Permit"  nights 
would  now,  to  say  the  least,  be  subject  to 
criticism;  the  Sunday  wolf-hunts  and  horse- 
races, with  their  attendant  delights,  would  now  be 
pursued  under  the  eye  of  the  Church,  and  this 
would  not  add  to  the  enjoyment  of  them.  One 
great  charm  of  the  country,  which  Bruce,  himself 
the  son  of  an  Edinburgh  minister,  and  now  Secre- 
tary of  the  Noble  Seven,  described  as  "letting  a 
fellow  do  as  he  blanked  pleased,"  would  be  gone. 
None  resented  more  bitterly  than  he  the  mission- 
ary's intrusion,  which  he  declared  to  be  an 
attempt  "to  reimpose  upon  their  freedom  the 
trammels  of  an  antiquated  and  bigoted  conven- 
tionality." But  the  rest  of  the  Company,  while 
not  taking  so  decided  a  stand,  were  agreed  that 
the  establishment  of  a  church  institution  was  an 
objectionable  and  impertinent  as  well  as  unneces- 
sary proceeding. 

Of  course,    Hi  Kendal  and  his  friend  Bronco 


40  The  Sky  Pilot 

Bill  had  no  opinion  one  way  or  the  other.  The 
Church  could  hardly  affect  them  even  remotely. 
A  dozen  years'  stay  in  Montana  had  proved  with 
sufficient  clearness  to  them  that  a  church  was  a 
luxury  of  civilization  the  West  might  well  do 
without. 

Outside  the  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven  there 
was  only  one  whose  opinion  had  value  in  Swan 
Creek,  and  that  was  the  Old  Timer.  The  Com- 
pany had  sought  to  bring  him  in  by  making  him 
an  honorary  member,  but  he  refused  to  be  drawn 
from  his  home  far  up  among  the  hills,  where  he 
lived  with  his  little  girl  Gwen  and  her  old  half- 
breed  nurse,  Ponka.  The  approach  of  the  church 
he  seemed  to  resent  as  a  personal  injury.  It 
represented  to  him  that  civilization  from  which 
he  had  fled  fifteen  years  ago  with  his  wife  and 
baby  girl,  and  when  five  years  later  he  laid  his 
wife  in  the  lonely  grave  that  could  be  seen  on  the 
shaded  knoll  just  fronting  his  cabin  door,  the  last 
link  to  his  past  was  broken.  From  all  that  sug- 
gested the  great  world  beyond  the  run  of  the 
Prairie  he  shrank  as  one  shrinks  from  a  sudden 
touch  upon  an  old  wound. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  move  back,"  he  said  to  me 
gloomily. 


The  Coming  of  the  Pilot  41 

"Why?"  I  said  in  surprise,  thinking  of  his 
grazing  range,  which  was  ample  for  his  herd. 

"This  blank  Sky  Pilot."  He  never  swore 
except  when  unusually  moved. 

"Sky  Pilot?"  I  inquired. 

He  nodded  and  silently  pointed  to  the  notice. 

"Oh,  well,  he  won't  hurt  you,  will  he?" 

"Can't  stand  it,"  he  answered  savagely,  *'must 
get  away. ' ' 

"What  about  Gwen?"  I  ventured,  for  she  was 
the  light  of  his  eyes.  "Pity  to  stop  her  studies." 
I  was  giving  her  weekly  lessons  at  the  old  man's 
ranch. 

"Dunno.  Ain't  figgered  out  yet  about  that 
baby."  She  was  still  his  baby.  "Guess  she's 
all  she  wants  for  the  Foothills,  anyway.  What's 
the  use?"  he  added,  bitterly,  talking  to  himself 
after  the  manner  of  men  who  live  much  alone. 

I  waited  for  a  moment,  then  said:  "Well,  I 
wouldn't  hurry  about  doing  anything, "  knowing 
well  that  the  one  thing  an  old-timer  hates  to  do  is 
to  make  any  change  in  his  mode  of  life.  "Maybe 
he  won't  stay." 

He  caught  at  this  eagerly.  "That's  so!  There 
ain't  much  to  keep  him,  anyway,"  and  he  rode  off 
to  his  lonely  ranch  far  up  in  the  hills. 


42  The  Sky  Pilot 

I  looked  after  the  swaying  figure  and  tried  to 
picture  his  past  with  its  tragedy;  then  I  found 
myself  wondering  how  he  would  end  and  what 
would  come  to  his  little  girl.  And  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  if  the  missionary  were  the  right  sort 
his  coming  might  not  be  a  bad  thing  for  the  Old 
Tinier  and  perhaps  for  more  than  him. 


The  Pilot's   Measure 


43 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   PILOT'S   MEASURE 

It  was  Hi  Kendal  that  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  missionary.  I  was  standing  at  the  door  of  my 
school,  watching  the  children  ride  off  home  on 
their  ponies,  when  Hi  came  loping  along  on  his 
bronco  in  tne  loose-jointed  cowboy  style. 

"Well,"  he  drawled  out,  bringing  his  bronco 
to  a  dead  stop  in  a  single  bound,  "he's  lit." 

"Lit?  Where?  What?"  said  I,  looking  round 
for  an  eagle  or  some  other  flying  thing. 

"Your  blanked  Sky  Pilot,  and  he's  a  beauty,  a 
pretty  kid — looks  too  tender  for  this  climate. 
Better  not  let  him  out  on  the  range. ' '  Hi  was 
quite  disgusted,  evidently. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  Hi?" 

"Why,  he  ain't  no  parson!  I  don't  go  much  on 
parsons,  but  when  I  calls  for  one  I  don't  want  no 
bantam  chicken.  No,  sirree,  horse.  I  don't  want 
no  blankety-blank,  pink-and-white  complected 

45 


46  The  Sky  Pilot 

nursery  kid  foolin*  round  my  graveyard.  If 
you're  goin'  to  bring  along  a  parson,  why,  bring 
him  with  his  eye-teeth  cut  and  his  tail  feathers 
on." 

That  Hi  was  deeply  disappointed  was  quite 
clear  from  the  selection  of  the  profanity  with 
which  he  adorned  this  lengthy  address.  It  was 
never  the  extent  of  his  profanity,  but  the  choice, 
that  indicated  Hi's  interest  in  any  subject. 

Altogether,  the  outlook  for  the  missionary  was 
not  encouraging.  With  the  single  exception  of 
the  Muirs,  who  really  counted  for  little,  nobody 
wanted  him.  To  most  of  the  reckless  young 
bloods  of  the  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven  his 
presence  was  an  offence ;  to  others  simply  a  nui- 
sance, while  the  Old  Timer  regarded  his  advent 
with  something  like  dismay;  and  now  Hi's 
impression  of  his  personal  appearance  was  not 
cheering. 

My  first  sight  of  him  did  not  reassure  me.  He 
was  very  slight,  very  young,  very  innocent,  with 
a  face  that  might  do  for  an  angel,  except  for  the 
touch  of  humor  in  it,  but  which  seemed  strangely 
out  of  place  among  the  rough,  hard  faces  that 
were  to  be  seen  in  the  Swan  Creek  Country.  It 
was  not  a  weak  face,  however.  The  forehead 


The  Pilo'ts  Measure  47 

was  high  and  square,  the  mouth  firm,  and  the 
eyes  were  luminous,  of  some  dark  color — violet,  if 
there  is  such  a  color  in  eyes — dreamy  or  spark- 
ling, according  to  his  mood;  eyes  for  which  a 
woman  might  find  use,  but  which,  in  a  mission- 
ary's head,  appeared  to  me  one  of  those  extraor- 
dinary wastes  of  which  Nature  is  sometimes  guilty. 

He  was  gazing  far  away  into  space  infinitely 
beyond  the  Foothills  and  the  blue  line  of  the 
mountains  behind  them.  He  turned  to  me  as  I 
drew  near,  with  eyes  alight  and  face  glowing. 

"It  is  glorious, "  he  almost  panted.  "You  see 
this  every  day ! ' '  Then,  recalling  himself,  he  came 
eagerly  toward  me,  stretching  out  his  hand. 
"You  are  the  schoolmaster,  I  know.  Do  you 
know,  it's  a  great  thing?  I  wanted  to  be  one,  but 
I  never  could  get  the  boys  on.  They  always  got 
me  telling  them  tales.  I  was  awfully  disap- 
pointed. I  am  trying  the  next  best  thing.  You 
see,  I  won't  have  to  keep  order,  but  I  don't  think 
I  can  preach  very  well.  I  am  going  to  visit  your 
school.  Have  you  many  scholars?  Do  you  know, 
I  think  it's  splendid?  I  wish  I  could  do  it." 

I  had  intended  to  be  somewhat  stiff  with  him, 
but  his  evident  admiration  of  me  made  me  quite 
forget  this  laudable  intention,  and,  as  he  talked 


48  The  Sky  Pilot 

on  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  his  enthusiasm, 
his  deference  to  my  opinion,  his  charm  of  man- 
ner, his  beautiful  face,  his  luminous  eyes,  made 
him  perfectly  irresistible ;  and  before  I  was  aware 
I  was  listening  to  his  plans  for  working  his  mis- 
sion with  eager  interest.  So  eager  was  my  inter- 
est, indeed,  that  before  I  was  aware  I  found 
myself  asking  him  to  tea  with  me  in  my  shack. 
But  he  declined,  saying: 

"I'd  like  to,  awfully;  but  do  you  know,  I  think 
Latour  expects  me." 

This  consideration  of  Latour's  feelings  almost 
upset  me. 

"You  come  with  me,"  he  added,  and  I  went. 

Latour  welcomed  us  with  his  grim  old  face 
wreathed  in  unusual  smiles.  The  Pilot  had  been 
talking  to  him,  too. 

"I've  got  it,  Latour!"  he  cried  out  as  he 
entered;  "here  you  are,"  and  he  broke  into  the 
beautiful  French-Canadian  chanson,  "A  la  Claire 
Fontaine,"  to  the  old  half-breed's  almost  tearful 
delight. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "I  heard  that  first 
down  the  Mattawa,"  and  away  he  went  into  a  story 
of  an  experience  with  French-Canadian  raftsmen, 
mixing  up  his  French  and  English  in  so  charming 


The  Pilot's  Measure  49 

a  manner  that  Latour,  who  in  his  younger  days 
long  ago  had  been  a  shantyman  himself,  hardly 
knew  whether  he  was  standing  on  his  head  or  on 
his  heels. 

After  tea  I  proposed  a  ride  out  to  see  the  sun- 
set from  the  nearest  rising  ground.  Latour,  with 
unexampled  generosity,  offered  his  own  cayuse, 
"Louis." 

"I  can't  ride  well,"  protested  The  Pilot. 

"Ah!  dat's  good  ponee,  Louis,"  urged  Latour. 
"He's  quiet  lak  wan  leetle  mouse;  he's  ride  lak — 
what  you  call? — wan  horse-on-de-rock. "  Under 
which  persuasion  the  pony  was  accepted. 

That  evening  I  saw  the  Swan  Creek  country 
with  new  eyes — through  the  luminous  eyes  of  The 
Pilot.  We  rode  up  the  trail  by  the  side  of  the 
Swan  till  we  came  to  the  coulee  mouth,  dark  and 
full  of  mystery. 

"Come  on,"  I  said,  "we  must  get  to  the  top 
for  the  sunset." 

He  looked  lingeringly  into  the  deep  shadows 
and  asked:  "Anything  live  down  there?" 

"Coyotes  and  wolves  and  ghosts." 

"Ghosts?"  he  asked,  delightedly.  "Do  you 
know,  I  was  sure  there  were,  and  I'm  quite  sure 
I  shall  see  them. " 


50  The  Sky  Pilot 

Then  we  took  the  Porcupine  trail  and  climbed 
for  about  two  miles  the  gentle  slope  to  the  top  of 
the  first  rising  ground.  There  we  stayed  and 
watched  the  sun  take  his  nightly  plunge  into  the 
sea  of  mountains,  now  dimly  visible.  Behind  us 
stretched  the  prairie,  sweeping  out  level  to  the 
sky  and  cut  by  the  winding  coulee  of  the  Swan. 
Great  long  shadows  from  the  hills  were  lying 
upon  its  yellow  face,  and  far  at  the  distant  edge 
the  gray  haze  was  deepening  into  purple.  Before 
us  lay  the  hills,  softly  curving  like  the  shoulders 
of  great  sleeping  monsters,  their  tops  still  bright, 
but  the  separating  valleys  full  of  shadow.  And 
there,  far  beyond  them,  up  against  the  ^ky,  was 
the  line  of  the  mountains — blue,  purple,  and  gold, 
according  as  the  light  fell  upon  them.  The  sun 
had  taken  his  plunge,  but  he  had  left  behind  him 
his  robes  of  saffron  and  gold.  We  stood  long 
without  a  word  or  movement,  filling  our  hearts 
with  {he  silence  and  the  beauty,  till  the  gold  in  the 
west  began  to  grow  dim.  High  above  all  the 
night  was  stretching  her  star-pierced,  blue  canopy, 
and  drawing  slowly  up  from  the  east  over  the 
prairie  and  over  the  sleeping  hills  the  soft  folds 
of  a  purple  haze.  The  great  silence  of  the  dying 
day  had  fallen  upon  the  world  and  held  us  fast. 


The  Pilot's  Measure  51 

"Listen,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  pcv.  Jng  to 
the  hills.  "Can't  you  hear  them  breathe?" 
And,  looking  at  their  curving  shoulders,  I  fancied 
I  could  see  them  slowly  heaving  as  if  in  heavy 
sleep,  and  I  was  quite  sure  I  could  hear  them 
breathe.  I  was  under  the  spell  of  his  voice  and 
his  eyes,  and  nature  was  all  living  to  me  then. 

We  rode  back  to  the  Stopping  Place  in  si- 
lence, except  for  a  word  of  mine  now  and  then 
which  he  heeded  not,  and,  with  hardly  a  good 
night,  he  left  me  at  the  door.  I  turned  away 
feeling  as  if"  I  had  been  in  a  strange  country  and 
among  strange  people. 

How  would  he  do  with  the  Swan  Creek  folk? 
Could  he  make  them  see  the  hills  breathe?  Would 
they  feel  as  I  felt  under  his  voice  and  eyes? 
What  a  curious  mixture  he  was!  I  was  doubtful 
about  his  first  Sunday,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
all  my  indifference  as  to  his  success  or  failure  gone. 
It  was  a  pity  about  the  baseball  match.  I  would 
speak  to  some  of  the  men  about  it  to-morrow. 

Hi  might  be  disappointed  in  his  appearance, 
but,  as  I  turned  into  my  shack  and  thought  over 
my  last  two  hours  with  The  Pilot  and  how  he  had 
"got"  old  Latour  and  myself,  I  began  to  think  that 
Hi  might  be  mistaken  in  his  measure  of  The  Pilot. 


First  Blood 


53 


CHAPTER  V 

FIRST    BLOOD 

One  is  never  so  enthusiastic  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, when  the  emotions  are  calmest  and  the  nerves 
at  their  steadiest.  But  I  was  determined  to  try 
to  have  the  baseball  match  postponed.  There 
could  be  no  difficulty.  One  day  was  as  much  of  a 
holiday  as  another  to  these  easy-going  fellows. 
But  The  Duke,  when  I  suggested  a  change  in  the 
day,  simply  raised  his  eyebrows  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  and  said : 

"Can't  see  why  the  day  should  be  changed." 
Bruce  stormed  and  swore  all  sorts  of  destruction 
upon  himself  if  he  was  going  to  change  his  style 
of  life  for  any  man.  The  others  followed  The 
Duke's  lead. 

That  Sunday  was  a  day  of  incongruities.  The 
Old  and  the  New,  the  East  and  the  West,  the 
reverential  Past  and  iconoclastic  Present  were 
jumbling  themselves  together  in  bewildering 
confusion.  The  baseball  match  was  played  with 

55 


56  The  Sky  Pilot 

much  vigor  and  profanity.  The  expression  on 
The  Pilot's  face,  as  he  stood  watching  for  a  while, 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  interest,  surprise,  doubt 
and  pain.  He  was  readjusting  himself.  He  was 
so  made  as  to  be  extremely  sensitive  to  his  sur- 
roundings. He  took  on  color  quickly.  The  utter 
indifference  to,  the  audacious  disregard  of  all  he 
had  hitherto  considered  sacred  and  essential  was 
disconcerting.  They  were  all  so  dead  sure.  How 
did  he  know  they  were  wrong?  It  was  his  first 
near  view  of  practical,  living  skepticism.  Skepti- 
cism in  a  book  did  not  disturb  him ;  he  could  put 
down  words  against  it.  But  here  it  was  alive, 
cheerful,  attractive,  indeed  fascinating;  for  these 
men  in  their  western  garb  and  with  their  west- 
ern swing  had  captured  his  imagination.  He  was 
in  a  fierce  struggle,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  saw 
him  disappear  into  the  coule"e. 

Meantime  the  match  went  uproariously  on  to  a 
finish,  with  the  result  that  the  champions  of 
"Home"  had  "to  stand  The  Painkiller,"  their 
defeat  being  due  chiefly  to  the  work  of  Hi  and 
Bronco  Bill  as  pitcher  and  catcher. 

The  celebration  was  in  full  swing ;  or  as  Hi  put 
it,  "the  boys  were  takin'  their  pizen  good  an' 
calm, ' '  when  in  walked  The  Pilot.  His  face  was 


First  Blood  57 

still  troubled  and  his  lips  were  drawn  and  blue,  as 
if  he  were  in  pain.  A  silence  fell  on  the  men  as 
he  walked  in  through  the  crowd  and  up  to  the 
bar.  He  stood  a  moment  hesitating,  looking 
round  upon  the  faces  flushed  and  hot  that  were 
now  turned  toward  him  in  curious  defiance.  He 
noticed  the  look,  and  it  pulled  him  together. 
He  faced  about  toward  old  Latour  and  asked  in  a 
high,  clear  voice : 

"Is  this  the  room  you  said  we  might  have?" 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said: 

"There  is  not  any  more." 

The  lad  paused  for  an  instant,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  Then,  lifting  a  pile  of  hymn  books  he 
had  near  him  on  the  counter,  he  said  in  a  grave, 
sweet  voice,  and  with  the  quiver  of  a  smile  about 
his  lips: 

* 'Gentlemen,  Mr.  Latour  has  allowed  me  this 
room  for  a  religious  service.  It  will  give  me 
great  pleasure  if  you  will  all  join,"  and  imme- 
diately he  handed  a  book  to  Bronco  Bill,  who, 
surprised,  took  it  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  The  others  followed  Bronco's  lead  till 
he  came  to  Bruce,  who  refused,  saying  roughly  : 

"No!  I  don't  want  it;  I've  no  use  for  it." 


58  The  Sky  Pilot 

The  missionary  flushed  and  drew  back  as  if  he 
had  been  struck,  but  immediately,  as  if  uncon- 
sciously, The  Duke,  who  was  standing  near, 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  said,  with  a  courteous 
bow,  "I  thank  you;  I  should  be  glad  of  one." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  The  Pilot,  simply,  as  he 
handed  him  a  book.  The  men  seated  themselves 
upon  the  bench  that  ran  round  the  room,  or 
leaned  up  against  the  counter,  and  most  of  them 
took  off  their  hats.  Just  then  in  came  Muir,  and 
behind  him  his  little  wife. 

In  an  instant  The  Duke  was  on  his  feet,  and 
every  hat  came  off. 

The  missionary  stood  up  at  the  bar,  and 
announced  the  hymn,  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My 
Soul."  The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by 
the  sound  of  a  horse  galloping.  A  buckskin 
bronco  shot  past  the  window,  and  in  a  few 
moments  there  appeared  at  the  door  the  Old 
Timer.  He  was  about  to  stride  in  when  the 
unusual  sight  of  a  row  of  men  sitting  solemnly 
with  hymn  books  in  their  hands  held  him  fast  at 
the  door.  He  gazed  in  an  amazed,  helpless  way 
upon  the  men,  then  at  the  missionary,  then  back 
at  the  men,  and  stood  speechless.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  high,  shrill,  boyish  laugh,  and  the 


First  Blood  59 

men  turned  to  see  the  missionary  in  a  fit  of 
laughter.  It  certainly  was  a  shock  to  any  linger- 
ing ideas  of  religious  propriety  they  might  have 
about  them ;  but  the  contrast  between  his  frank, 
laughing  face  and  the  amazed  and  disgusted  face 
of  the  shaggy  old  man  in  the  doorway  was  too 
much  for  them,  and  one  by  one  they  gave  way  to 
roars  of  laughter.  The  Old  Timer,  however, 
kept  his  face  unmoved,  strode  up  to  the  bar  and 
nodded  to  old  Latour,  who  served  him  his  drink, 
which  he  took  at  a  gulp. 

"Here,  old  man!"  called  out  Bill,  "get  into  the 
game;  here's  your  deck,"  offering  him  his  book. 
But  the  missionary  was  before  him,  and,  with 
very  beautiful  grace,  he  handed  the  Old  Timer  a 
book  and  pointed  him  to  a  seat. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  service.  As  a  religious 
affair  it  was  a  dead  failure,  but  somehow  I  think 
The  Pilot,  as  Hi  approvingly  said,  "got  in  his 
funny  work,"  and  it  was  not  wholly  a  defeat. 
The  first  hymn  was  sung  chiefly  by  the  missionary 
and  Mrs.  Muir,  whose  voice  was  very  high,  with 
one  or  two  of  the  men  softly  whistling  an  accom- 
paniment. The  second  hymn  was  better,  and 
then  came  the  Lesson,  the  story  of  the  feeding  of 
the  five  thousand.  As  the  missionary  finished 


60  The  Sky  Pilot 

the  story,  Bill,  who  had  been  listening  with  great 
interest,  said: 

"I  say,  pard,  I  think  I'll  call  you  just  now." 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  said  the  startled  mis- 
sionary. 

"You're  givin'  us  quite  a  song  and  dance  now, 
ain't  you?" 

"I  don't  understand."  was  the  puzzled  reply. 

"How  many  men  was  there  in  the  crowd?" 
asked  Bill,  with  a  judicial  air. 

"Five  thousand." 

"And  how  much  grub?" 

"Five  loaves  and  two  fishes,"  answered  Bruce 
for  the  missionary. 

"Well,"  drawled  Bill,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  has  reached  a  conclusion,  "that's  a  little  too 
unusual  for  me.  Why, ' '  looking  pityingly  at  the 
missionary,  "it  ain't  natarel." 

"Right  you  are,  my  boy,"  said  Bruce,  with  a 
laugh.  "It's  deucedly  unnatural. 

"Not  for  Him,"  said  the  missionary,  quietly. 
Then  Bruce  joyfully  took  him  up  and  led  him  on 
into  a  discussion  of  evidences,  and  from  evidences 
into  metaphysics,  the  origin  of  evil  and  the  free- 
dom of  the  will,  till  the  missionary,  as  Bill  said, 
"was  rattled  worse  nor  a  rooster  in  the  dark." 


First  Blood  61 

Poor  little  Mrs.  Muir  was  much  scandalized  and 
looked  anxiously  at  her  husband,  wishing  him  to 
take  her  out.  But  help  came  from  an  unexpected 
quarter,  and  Hi  suddenly  called  out: 

"Here  you,  Bill,  shut  your  blanked  jaw,  and 
you,  Bruce,  give  the  man  a  chance  to  work  off  his 
music." 

"That's  so!  Fair  play!  Go  on !"  were  the  cries 
that  came  in  response  to  Hi's  appeal. 

The  missionary,  who  was  all  trembling  and 
much  troubled,  gave  Hi  a  grateful  look,  and 
said: 

"I'm  afraid  there  are  a  great  many  things  I 
don't  understand,  and  I  am  not  good  at  argu- 
ment." There  were  shouts  of  "Go  on!  fire 
ahead,  play  the  game!"  but  he  said,  "I  think  we 
will  close  the  service  with  a  hymn. ' '  His  frank- 
ness and  modesty,  and  his  respectful,  courteous 
manner  gained  the  sympathy  of  the  men,  so  that 
all  joined  heartily  in  singing,  "Sun  of  My  Soul." 
In  the  prayer  that  followed  his  voice  grew  steady 
and  his  nerve  came  back  to  him.  The  words 
were  very  simple,  and  the  petitions  were  mostly 
for  light  and  for  strength.  With  a  few  words  of 
remembrance  of  "those  in  our  homes  far  away 
who  think  of  us  and  pray  for  us  and  never 


62  The  Sky  Pilot 

forget,"  this  strange  service  was  brought  to 
a  close. 

After  the  missionary  had  stepped  out,  the  whole 
affair  was  discussed  with  great  warmth.  Hi 
Kendal  thought  "The  Pilot  didn't  have  no  fair 
show,"  maintaining  that  when  he  was  "ropin"  a 
steer  he  didn't  want  no  blanked  tenderfoot  to  be 
shovin'  in  his  rope  like  Bill  there."  But  Bill 
steadily  maintained  his  position  that  "the  story  of 
that  there  picnic  was  a  little  too  unusual"  for  him. 
Bruce  was  trying  meanwhile  to  beguile  The  Duke 
into  a  discussion  of  the  physics  and  metaphysics 
of  the  case.  But  The  Duke  refused  with  quiet 
contempt  to  be  drawn  into  a  region  where  he  felt 
himself  a  stranger.  He  preferred  poker  himself, 
if  Bruce  cared  to  take  a  hand ;  and  so  the  evening 
went  on,  with  the  theological  discussion  by  Hi 
and  Bill  in  a  judicial,  friendly  spirit  in  one 
corner,  while  the  others  for  the  most  part  played 
poker. 

When  the  missionary  returned  late  there  were 
only  a  few  left  in  the  room,  among  them  The 
Duke  and  Bruce,  who  was  drinking  steadily  and 
losing  money.  The  missionary's  presence  seemed 
to  irritate  him,  and  he  played  even  more  reck- 
lessly than  usual,  swearing  deeply  at  every  loss. 


"I  SAY,  BRUCE,  LET'S  QUIT." 


First  Blood  63 

At  the  door  the  missionary  stood  looking  up  into 
the  night  sky  and  humming  softly  "Sun  of  My 
Soul,"  and  after  a  few  minutes  The  Duke  joined 
in  humming  a  bass  to  the  air  till  Bruce  could 
contain  himself  no  longer. 

"I  say,"  he  called  out,  "this  isn't  any  blanked 
prayer-meeting,  is  it?" 

The  Duke  ceased  humming,  and,  looking  at 
Bruce,  said  quietly:  "Well,  what  is  it?  What's 
the  trouble?" 

"Trouble!"  shouted  Bruce.  "I  don't  see  what 
hymn-singing  has  to  do  with  a  poker  game. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  see!  I  beg  pardon!  Was  I  singing?" 
said  The  Duke.  Then  after  a  pause  he  added, 
"You're  quite  right.  I  say,  Bruce,  let's  quit. 
Something  has  got  on  to  your  nerves."  And 
coolly  sweeping  his  pile  into  his  pocket,  he  gave 
up  the  game.  With  an  oath  Bruce  left  the  table, 
took  another  drink,  and  went  unsteadily  out  to  his 
horse,  and  soon  we  heard  him  ride  away  into  the 
darkness,  singing  snatches  of  the  hymn  and 
swearing  the  most  awful  oaths. 

The  missionary's  face  was  white  with  horror. 
It  was  all  new  and  horrible  to  him. 

"Will  he  get  safely  borne?"  he  asked  of  The 
Duke. 


64  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Don't  you  worry,  youngster,"  said  The  Duke, 
in  his  loftiest  manner,  "he'll  get  along." 

The  luminous,  dreamy  eyes  grew  hard  and 
bright  as  they  looked  The  Duke  in  the  face. 

"Yes,  I  shall  worry;  but  you  ought  to  worry 
more." 

"Ah!"  said  The  Duke,  raising  his  brows  and 
smiling  gently  upon  the  bright,  stern  young  face 
lifted  up  to  his.  "I  didn't  notice  that  I  had  asked 
your  opinion." 

"If  anything  should  happen  to  him,"  replied 
the  missionary,  quickly,  "I  should  consider  you 
largely  responsible." 

"That  would  be  kind,"  said  The  Duke,  still 
smiling  with  his  lips.  But  after  a  moment's 
steady  look  into  the  missionary's  eyes  he  nodded 
his  head  twice  or  thrice,  and,  without  further 
word,  turned  away. 

The  missionary  turned  eagerly  to  me: 

"They  beat  me  this  afternoon,"  he  cried,  "but 
thank  God,  I  know  now  they  are  wrong  and  I  am 
right!  I  don't  understand!  I  can't  see  my  way 
through!  But  I  am  right!  It's  true!  I  feel  it's 
true!  Men  can't  live  without  Him,  and  be  men!" 

And  long  after  I  went  to  my  shack  that  night  I 
saw  before  me  the  eager  face  with  the  luminous 


First  Blood  65 

eyes  and  heard  the  triumphant  cry:  "I  feel  it's 
true!  Men  can't  live  without  Him,  and  be  men!" 
and  I  knew  that  though  his  first  Sunday  ended  in 
defeat  there  was  victory  yet  awaiting  him. 


His  Second  Wind 


CHAPTER  VI 

HIS   SECOND    WIND 

The  first  weeks  were  not  pleasant  for  The 
Pilot.  He  had  been  beaten,  and  the  sense  of 
failure  damped  his  fine  enthusiasm,  which  was 
one  of  his  chief  charms.  The  Noble  Seven 
despised,  ignored,  or  laughed  at  him,  according 
to  their  mood  and  disposition.  Bruce  patronized 
him;  and,  worst  of  all,  the  Muirs  pitied  him. 
This  last  it  was  that  brought  him  low,  and  I  was 
glad  of  it.  I  find  it  hard  to  put  up  with  a  man 
that  enjoys  pity. 

It  was  Hi  Kendal  that  restored  him,  though  Hi 
had  no  thought  of  doing  so  good  a  deed.  It  was 
in  this  way :  A  baseball  match  was  on  with  The 
Porcupines  from  near  the  Fort.  To  Hi's  disgust 
and  the  team's  dismay  Bill  failed  to  appear.  It 
was  Hi's  delight  to  stand  up  for  Bill's  pitching, 
and  their  battery  was  the  glory  of  the  Home  team. 

"Try  The  Pilot,  Hi,"  said  some  one,  chaffing 
him. 

* 


70  The  Sky  Pilot 

Hi  locked  glumly  across  at  The  Pilot  standing 
some  distance  away;  then  called  out,  holding 
up  the  ball: 

"Can  you  play  the  game?" 

For  answer  Moore  held  up  his  hands  for  a  catch. 
Hi  tossed  him  the  ball  easily.  The  ball  came 
back  so  quickly  that  Hi  was  hardly  ready,  and  the 
jar  seemed  to  amaze  him  exceedingly. 

"I'll  take  him,"  he  said,  doubtfully,  and  the 
game  began.  Hi  fitted  on  his  mask,  a  new 
importation  and  his  peculiar  pride,  and  waited. 

"How  do  you  like  them?"  asked  The  Pilot 

"Hot!"  said  Hi.  "I  hain't  got  no  gloves  to 
burn. ' ' 

The  Pilot  turned  his  back,  swung  off  one  foot 
on  to  the  other  and  discharged  his  ball. 

"Strike!"  called  the  umpire. 

"You  bet!"  said  Hi,  with  emphasis,  but  his  face 
was  a  picture  of  amazement  and  dawning  delight. 

Again  The  Pilot  went  through  the  manoeuvre  in 
his  box  and  again  the  umpire  called : 

"Strike!* 

Hi  stopped  the  ball  without  holding  it  and  set 
himself  for  the  third.  Once  more  that  discon- 
certing swing  and  the  whip-like  action  of  the  arm, 
and  for  the  third  time  the  umpire  called : 


His  Second  Wind  71 

'Strike!     Striker  out!" 

"That's  the  hole,"  yelled  Hi. 

The  Porcupines  were  amazed.  Hi  looked  at 
the  ball  in  his  hand,  then  at  the  slight  figure  of 
The  Pilot. 

"I  say!  where  do  you  get  it?" 

"What?"  asked  Moore  innocently. 

•'The  gait!" 

"The  what?" 

"The  gait!  the  speed,  you  know!" 

"Oh!  I  used  to  play  in  Princeton  a  little." 

"Did,  eh?  What  the  blank  blank  did  you  quit 
for?" 

He  evidently  regarded  the  exchange  of  the 
profession  of  baseball  for  the  study  of  the- 
ology as  a  serious  error  in  judgment,  and  in  this 
opinion  every  inning  of  the  game  confirmed 
him.  At  the  bat  The  Pilot  did  not  shine,  but  he 
made  up  for  light  hitting  by  his  base-running. 
He  was  fleet  as  a  deer,  and  he  knew  the  game 
thoroughly.  He  was  keen,  eager,  intense  in  play, 
and  before  the  innings  were  half  over  he  was 
recognized  as  the  best  all-round  man  on  the  field. 
In  the  pitcher's  box  he  puzzled  the  Porcupines  till 
they  grew  desperate  and  hit  wildly  and  blindly, 
amid  the  jeers  of  the  spectators.  The  bewilder- 


72  The  Sky  Pilot 

ment  of  the  Porcupines  was  equaled  only  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  Hi  and  his  nine,  and  when  the  game 
was  over  the  score  stood  37  to  7  in  favor  of  the 
Home  team.  They  carried  The  Pilot  off  the  field. 

From  that  day  Moore  was  another  man.  He 
had  won  the  unqualified  respect  of  Hi  Kendal 
and  most  of  the  others,  for  he  could  beat  them  at 
their  own  game  and  still  be  modest  about  it. 
Once  more  his  enthusiasm  came  back  and  his 
brightness  and  his  courage.  The  Duke  was  not 
present  to  witness  his  triumph,  and,  besides,  he 
rather  despised  the  game.  Bruce  was  there, 
however,  but  took  no  part  in  the  general  acclaim ; 
indeed,  he  seemed  rather  disgusted  with  Moore's 
sudden  leap  into  favor.  Certainly  his  hostility  to 
The  Pilot  and  to  all  that  he  stood  for  was  none 
the  less  open  and  bitter. 

The  hostility  was  more  than  usually  marked  at 
the  service  held  on  the  Sunday  following.  It 
was,  perhaps,  thrown  into  stronger  relief  by  the 
open  and  delighted  approval  of  Hi,  who  was 
prepared  to  back  up  anything  The  Pilot  would 
venture  to  say.  Bill,  who  had  not  witnessed  The 
Pilot's  performance  in  the  pitcher's  box,  but  had 
only  Hi's  enthusiastic  report  to  go  upon,  still 
preserved  his  judicial  air.  It  is  fair  to  say,  how- 


His  Second  Wind  73 

ever,  that  there  was  no  mean-spirited  jealousy  in 
Bill's  heart  even  though  Hi  had  frankly  assured 
him  that  The  Pilot  was  "a  demon,"  and  could 
"give  him  points."  Bill  had  great  confidence  in 
Hi's  opinion  upon  baseball,  but  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  surrender  his  right  of  private  judgment 
in  matters  theological,  so  he  waited  for  the  sermon 
before  committing  himself  to  any  enthusiastic 
approval.  This  service  was  an  undoubted  suc- 
cess. The  singing  was  hearty,  and  insensibly 
the  men  fell  into  a  reverent  attitude  during 
prayer.  The  theme,  too,  was  one  that  gave  little 
room  for  skepticism.  It  was  the  story  of 
Zaccheus,  and  story-telling  was  Moore's  strong 
point.  The  thing  was  well  done.  Vivid  por- 
traitures of  the  outcast,  shrewd,  converted  publi- 
can and  the  supercilious,  self-complacent,  critical 
Pharisee  were  drawn  with  a  few  deft  touches. 
A  single  sentence  transferred  them  to  the  Foot- 
hills and  arrayed  them  in  cowboy  garb.  Bill  was 
none  too  sure  of  himself,  but  Hi,  with  delightful 
winks,  was  indicating  Bruce  as  the  Pharisee,  to  the 
latter's  scornful  disgust.  The  preacher  must 
have  noticed,  for  with  a  very  clever  turn  the 
Pharisee  was  shown  to  be  the  kind  of  man  who 
likes  to  fit  faults  upon  others.  Then  Bill,  digging 


74  The  Sky  Pilot 

his  elbows  into  Hi's  ribs,  said  in  an  audible 
whisper: 

"Say,  pardner,  how  does  it  fit  now?" 

"You  git  out!"  answered  Hi,  indignantly,  but 
his  confidence  in  his  interpretation  of  the  appli- 
cation was  shaken.  When  Moore  came  to 
describe  the  Master  and  His  place  in  that  ancient 
group,  we  in  the  Stopping  Place  parlor  fell  under 
the  spell  of  his  eyes  and  voice,  and  our  hearts 
were  moved  within  us.  That  great  Personality 
was  made  very  real  and  very  winning.  Hi  was 
quite  subdued  by  the  story  and  the  picture.  Bill 
was  perplexed ;  it  was  all  new  to  him ;  but  Bruce 
was  mainly  irritated.  To  him  it  was  all  old 
and  filled  with  memories  he  hated  to  face.  At 
any  rate  he  was  unusually  savage  that  even- 
ing, drank  heavily  and  went  home  late,  raging  and 
cursing  at  things  in  general  and  The  Pilot  in  par- 
ticular— for  Moore,  in  a  timid  sort  of  way,  had 
tried  to  quiet  him  and  help  him  to  his  horse. 

"Ornery  sort  o*  beast  now,  ain't  he?"  said  Hi, 
with  the  idea  of  comforting  The  Pilot,  who  stood 
sadly  looking  after  Bruce  disappearing  in  the 
gloom. 

"No!  no!"  he  answered,  quickly,  "not  a  beast, 
but  a  brother." 


His  Second  Wind  75 

"Brother!  Not  much,  if  I  know  my  relations!" 
answered  Hi,  disgustedly. 

"The  Master  thinks  a  good  deal  of  him,"  was 
the  earnest  reply. 

"Git  out!"  said  Hi,  "you  don't  mean  it! 
Why,"  he  added,  decidedly,  "he's  more  stuck  on 
himself  than  that  mean  old  cuss  you  was  tellin' 
about  this  afternoon,  and  without  half  the 
reason. ' ' 

But  Moore  only  said,  kindly,  "Don't  be  hard  on 
him,  Hi,"  and  turned  away,  leaving  Hi  and  Bill 
gravely  discussing  the  question,  with  the  aid  of 
several  drinks  of  whisky.  They  were  still  dis- 
cussing when,  an  hour  later,  they,  too,  disappeared 
into  the  darkness  that  swallowed  up  the  trail  to 
Ashley  Ranch.  That  was  the  first  of  many 
such  services.  The  preaching  was  always  of  the 
simplest  kind,  abstract  questions  being  avoided 
and  the  concrete  in  those  wonderful  Bible  tales, 
dressed  in  modern  and  in  western  garb,  set  forth. 
Bill  and  Hi  were  more  than  ever  his  friends  and 
champions,  and  the  latter  was  heard  exultantly  to 
exclaim  to  Bruce : 

"He  ain't  much  to  look  at  as  a  parson,  but  he's 
a-ketchin'  his  second  wind,  and  'fore  long  you 
won't  see  him  for  dust." 


The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays 


77 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PERMIT  SUNDAYS 

The  spring  "round-ups"  were  all  over  and 
Bruce  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  loaf  about  the 
Stopping  Place,  drinking  old  Latour's  bad  whisky 
and  making  himself  a  nuisance.  In  vain  The 
Pilot  tried  to  win  him  with  loans  of  books  and 
magazines  and  other  kindly  courtesies.  He  would 
be  decent  for  a  day  and  then  would  break  fortli 
in  violent  argumentation  against  religion  and  all 
who  held  to  it.  He  sorely  missed  The  Duke,  who 
was  away  south  on  one  of  his  periodic  journeys, 
of  which  no  one  knew  anything  or  cared  to  ask. 
The  Duke's  presence  always  steadied  Bruce  and 
took  the  rasp  out  of  his  manners.  It  was  rather  a 
relief  to  all  that  he  was  absent  from  the  next  fort- 
nightly service,  though  Moore  declared  he  was 
ashamed  to  confess  this  relief. 

"I  can't  touch  him,"  he  said  to  me,  after  the 
service;  "he  is  far  too  clever,  but,"  and  his  voice 
was  full  of  pain,  "I'd  give  something  to  help 
him." 


8o  The  Sky  Pilot 

"If  he  doesn't  quit  his  nonsense,"  I  replied, 
"he'll  soon  be  past  helping.  He  doesn't  go  out 
on  his  range,  his  few  cattle  wander  everywhere, 
his  shack  is  in  a  beastly  state,  and  he  himself  is 
going  to  pieces,  miserable  fool  that  he  is."  For 
it  did  seem  a  shame  that  a  fellow  should  so  throw 
himself  away  for  nothing. 

"You  are  hard,"  said  Moore,  with  his  eyes  upon 
me. 

"Hard?  Isn't  it  true?"  I  answered,  hotly. 
"Then,  there's  his  mother  at  home." 

"Yes,  but  can  he  help  it?  Is  it  all  his  fault?"  he 
replied,  with  his  steady  eyes  still  looking  into  me. 

"His  fault?    Whose  fault,  then?" 

"What  of  the  Noble  Seven?  Have  they  any- 
thing to  do  with  this?"  His  voice  was  quiet,  but 
there  was  an  arresting  intensity  in  it. 

"Well,"  I  said,  rather  weakly,  "a  man  ought  to 
look  after  himself." 

"Yes!— and  his  brother  a  little."  Then  he 
added:  "What  have  any  of  you  done  to  help  him? 
The  Duke  could  have  pulled  him  up  a  year  ago  if 
he  had  been  willing  to  deny  himself  a  little,  and 
so  with  all  of  you.  You  all  do  just  what  pleases 
you  regardless  of  any  other,  and  so  you  help  one 
another  down." 


The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays          81 

I  could  not  find  anything  just  then  to  say, 
though  afterwards  many  things  came  to  me ;  for, 
though  his  voice  was  quiet  and  low,  his  eyes  were 
glowing  and  his  face  was  alight  with  the  fire  that 
burned  within,  and  I  felt  like  one  convicted  of  a 
crime.  This  was  certainly  a  new  doctrine  for 
the  West ;  an  uncomfortable  doctrine  to  practice, 
interfering  seriously  with  personal  liberty,  but  in 
The  Pilot's  way  of  viewing  things  difficult  to 
escape.  There  would  be  no  end  to  one's  responsi- 
bility. I  refused  to  think  it  out. 

Within  a  fortnight  we  were  thinking  it  out  with 
some  intentness.  The  Noble  Seven  were  to  have 
a  great  "blow-out"  at  the  Hill  brothers'  ranch. 
The  Duke  had  got  home  from  his  southern  trip  a 
little  more  weary-looking  and  a  little  more 
cynical  in  his  smile.  The  "blow-out"  was  to  be 
held  on  Permit  Sunday,  the  alternate  to  the 
Preaching  Sunday,  which  was  a  concession  to  The 
Pilot,  secured  chiefly  through  the  influence  of  Hi 
and  his  baseball  nine.  It  was  something  to  have 
created  the  situation  involved  in  the  distinction 
between  Preaching  and  Permit  Sundays.  Hi  put 
it  rather  graphically.  "The  devil  takes  his  innin's 
one  Sunday  and  The  Pilot  the  next,"  adding 
emphatically,  "He  hain't  done  much  scorin'  yit, 


82  The  Sky  Pilot 

but  my  money's  on  The  Pilot,  you  bet!"  Bill 
was  more  cautious  and  preferred  to  wait  develop- 
ments. And  developments  were  rapid. 

The  Hill  brothers'  meet  was  unusually  success- 
ful from  a  social  point  of  view.  Several  Permits 
had  been  requisitioned,  and  whisky  and  beer 
abounded.  Races  all  day  and  poker  all  night  and 
drinks  of  various  brews  both  day  and  night,  with 
varying  impromptu  diversions — such  as  shooting 
the  horns  off  wandering  steers — were  the  social 
amenities  indulged  in  by  the  noble  company. 
On  Monday  evening  I  rode  out  to  the  ranch, 
urged  by  Moore,  who  was  anxious  that  someone 
should  look  after  Bruce. 

"I  don't  belong  to  them,"  he  said,  "yon  do. 
They  won't  resent  your  coming." 

Nor  did  they.  They  were  sitting  at  tea,  and 
welcomed  me  with  a  shout. 

"Hello,  old  domine!"  yelled  Bruce,  "  where 's 
your  preacher  friend?" 

"Where  you  ought  to  be,  if  you  could  get  there 
— at  home,"  I  replied,  nettled  at  his  insolent 
tone. 

"Strike  one!"  called  out  Hi,  enthusiastically, 
not  approving  Bruce's  attitude  toward  his  friend, 
The  Pilot. 


The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays          83 

"Don't  be  so  acute,"  said  Bruce,  after  the  laugh 
had  passed,  "but  have  a  drink." 

He  was  flushed  and  very  shaky  and  very  noisy. 
The  Duke,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  looked  a  little 
harder  than  usual,  but,  though  pale,  was  quite 
steady.  The  others  were  all  more  or  less  nerve- 
broken,  and  about  the  room  were  the  signs  of  a 
wild  night.  A  bench  was  upset,  while  broken 
bottles  and  crockery  lay  strewn  about  over  a  floor 
reeking  with  filth.  The  disgust  on  my  face  called 
forth  an  apology  from  the  younger  Hill,  who  was 
serving  up  ham  and  eggs  as  best  he  could  to  the 
men  lounging  about  the  table. 

"It's  my  housemaid's  afternoon  out,"  he 
explained  gravely. 

"Gone  for  a  walk  in  the  park,"  added  an, 
other. 

"Hope  Mister  Connor  will  pardon  the  absence, ' ' 
sneered  Bruce,  in  his  most  offensive  manner. 

"Don't  mind  him,  "said  Hi,  under  his  breath, 
"the  blue  devils  are  runnin'  him  down." 

This  became  more  evident  as  the  evening  went 
on.  From  hilarity  Bruce  passed  to  sullen  ferocity, 
with  spasms  of  nervous  terror.  Hi's  attempts  to 
soothe  him  finally  drove  him  mad,  and  he  drew 
his  revolver,  declaring  he  could  look  after  him- 


84  The  Sky  Pilot 

self,  in  proof  of  which  he  began  to  shoot  out  the 
lights. 

The  men  scrambled  into  safe  corners,  all  but 
The  Duke,  who  stood  quietly  by  watching  Bruce 
shoot.  Then  saying: 

"Let  me  have  a  try,  Bruce,"  he  reached  across 
and  caught  his  hand. 

"No!  you  don't,"  said  Bruce,  struggling. 
' '  No  man  gets  my  gun. ' ' 

He  tore  madly  at  the  gripping  hand  with  both 
of  his,  but  in  vain,  calling  out  with  frightful  oaths : 

"Let  go!  let  go!     I'll  kill  you!     I'll  kill  you!" 

With  a  furious  effort  he  hurled  himself  back 
from  the  table,  dragging  The  Duke  partly  across. 
There  was  a  flash  and  a  report  and  Bruce  col- 
lapsed, The  Duke  still  gripping  him.  When  they 
lifted  him  up  he  was  found  to  have  an  ugly 
wound  in  his  arm,  the  bullet  having  passed 
through  the  fleshy  part.  I  bound  it  up  as  best  I 
could  and  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  to  bed. 
But  he  would  go  home.  Nothing  could  stop  him. 
Finally  The  Duke  agreed  to  go  with  him,  and  off 
they  set,  Bruce  loudly  protesting  that  he  could 
get  home  alone  and  did  not  want  anyone. 

It  was  a  dismal  break-up  to  the  meet,  and  we 
all  went  home  feeling  rather  sick,  so  that  it  gave 


The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays          85 

me  no  pleasure  to  find  Moore  waiting  in  my  shack 
for  my  report  of  Bruce.  It  was  quite  vain  for  me 
to  make  light  of  the  accident  to  him.  His  eyes 
were  wide  open  with  anxious  fear  when  I  had 
done. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  not  to  be  anxious,"  he 
said,  "you  are  anxious  yourself.  I  see  it,  I  feel 
it." 

"Well,  there's  no  use  trying  to  keep  things 
from  you,"  I  replied,  "but  I  am  only  a  little  anx- 
ious. Don't  you  go  beyond  me  and  work  yourself 
up  into  a  fever  over  it." 

"No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "but  I  wish  his 
mother  were  nearer. ' ' 

"Oh,  bosh,  it  isn't  coming  to  that;  but  I  wish 
he  were  in  better  shape.  He  is  broken  up  badly 
without  this  hole  in  him." 

He  would  not  leave  till  I  had  promised  to  take 
him  up  the  next  day,  though  I  was  doubtful 
enough  of  his  reception.  But  next  day  The  Duke 
came  down,  his  black  bronco,  Jingo,  wet  with 
hard  riding. 

"Better  come  up,  Connor,"  he  said,  gravely, 

"and  bring  your  bromides  along.     He  has  had  a 

,bad  night    and    morning    and    fell    asleep  only 

before   I    came   away.      I  expect  he'll  wake  in 


86  The  Sky  Pilot 

delirium.  It's  the  whisky  more  than  tfie  bullet. 
Snakes,  you  know." 

In  ten  minutes  we  three  were  on  t\ie  trail,  for 
Moore,  though  not  invited,  quietly  announced  his 
intention  to  go  with  us. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  The  Dukt,,  indiffer- 
ently, "he  probably  won't  recognize  you  any 
way. ' ' 

We  rode  hard  for  half  an  hour  till  we  came 
within  sight  of  Bruce 's  shack,  which  was  set  back 
into  a  little  poplar  bluff. 

"Hold  up '."said  The  Duke.  "Was  that  a  shot?" 
We  stood  listening.  A  rifle-shot  rang  out,  and 
we  rode  hard.  Again  The  Duke  halted  us,  and 
there  came  from  the  shack  the  sound  of  singing. 
It  was  an  old  Scotch  tune. 

"The  twenty- third  Psalm,"  said  Moore,  in  a 
low  voice. 

We  rode  into  the  bluff,  tied  up  our  horses  and 
crept  to  the  back  of  the  shack.  Looking  through 
a  crack  between  the  logs,  I  saw  a  gruesome  thing. 
Bruce  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  Winchester 
rifle  across  his  knees  and  a  belt  of  cartridges 
hanging  over  the  post.  His  bandages  were  torn 
off,  the  blood  from  his  wound  was  smeared  over 
his  bare  arms  and  his  pale,  ghastly  face ;  his  eyes 


The  Last  of  the  Permit  Sundays          87 

were  wild  with  mad  terror,  and  he  was  shouting 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  words : 

"The  Lord's  my  shepherd,  I'll  not  want, 

He  makes  me  down  to  lie 
In  pastures  green,  He  leadeth  me 
The  quiet  waters  by." 

Now  and  then  he  would  stop  to  say  in  an  awe- 
some whisper,  "Come  out  here,  you  little  devils!" 
and  bang  would  go  his  rifle  at  the  stovepipe, 
which  was  riddled  with  holes.  Then  once  more 
in  a  loud  voice  he  would  hurry  to  begin  the  Psalm, 

"The  Lord's  my  Shepherd. " 

Nothing  that  my  memory  brings  to  me  makes 
me  chill  like  that  picture — the  low  log  shack, 
now  in  cheerless  disorder;  the  ghastly  object 
upon  the  bed  in  the  corner,  with  blood-smeared 
face  and  arms  and  mad  terror  in  the  eyes;  the 
awful  cursings  and  more  awful  psalm-singing, 
punctuated  by  the  quick  report  of  the  deadly  rifle. 

For  some  moments  we  stood  gazing  at  one 
another;  then  The  Duke  said,  in  a  low,  fierce 
tone,  more  to  himself  than  to  us: 

"This  is  the  last.  There'll  be  no  more  of  this 
cursed  folly  among  the  boys." 

And  I  thought  it  a  wise  thing  in  The  Pilot  that 
he  answered  not  a  word. 


The   Pilot's   Grip 


CHAPTER   VIII 
THE  PILOT'S  GRIP 

The  situation  was  one  of  extreme  danger — a 
madman  with  a  Winchester  rifle.  Something 
must  be  done  and  quickly.  But  what?  It  would 
be  death  to  anyone  appearing  at  the  door. 

"I'll  spealr;  you  keep  your  eyes  on  him, "  said 
The  Duke. 

"Hello,  Bruce!  What's  the  row?"  shouted  The 
Duke. 

Instantly  the  singing  stopped.  A  look  of  cun- 
ning delight  came  over  his  face  as,  without 
a  word,  he  got  his  rifle  ready  pointed  at  the 
door. 

"Come  in!"  he  yelled,  after  waiting  for  some 
moments.  "Come  in!  You're  the  biggest  of  all 
the  devils.  Come  on,  I'll  send  you  down  where 
you  belong.  Come,  what's  keeping  you?" 

Over  the  rifle-barrel  his  eyes  gleamed  with 
frenzied  delight.  We  consulted  as  to  a  plan. 

"I  don't  relish  a  bullet  much,"  I  said. 
91 


92  The  Sky  Pilot 

"There  are  pleasanter  things,"  responded  The 
Duke,  "and  he  is  a  fairly  good  shot." 

Meantime  the  singing  had  started  again,  and, 
looking  through  the  chink,  I  saw  that  Bruce  had 
got  his  eye  on  the  stovepipe  again.  While  I  was 
looking  The  Pilot  slipped  away  from  us  toward 
the  door. 

"Come  back!"  said  the  Duke,  "don't  be  a  fool! 
Come  back,  he'll  shoot  you  dead!" 

Moore  paid  no  heed  to  him,  but  stood  waiting 
at  the  door.  In  a  few  moments  Bruce  blazed 
away  again  at  the  stovepipe.  Immediately  the 
Pilot  burst  in,  calling  out  eagerly : 

"Did  you  get  him?" 

"No!"  said  Bruce,  disappointedly,  "he  dodged 
like  the  devil,  as  of  course  he  ought,  you  know." 

"I'll  get  him,"  said  Moore.  "Smoke  him  out," 
proceeding  to  open  the  stove  door. 

"Stop!"  screamed  Bruce,  "don't  open  that 
door!  It's  full,  I  tell  you."  Moore  paused.  "Be- 
sides," went  on  Bruce,  "smoke  won't  touch  'em." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Moore,  coolly  and 
with  admirable  quickness,  "wood  smoke,  you 
know — they  can't  stand  that." 

This  was  apparently  a  new  idea  in  demonology 
for  Bruce,  for  he  sank  back,  while  Moore  lighted 


The  Pilot's  Grip  93 

the  fire  and  put  on  the  tea-kettle.  He  looked 
round  for  the  tea-caddy. 

"Up  there,"  said  Bruce,  forgetting  for  the 
moment  his  devils,  and  pointing  to  a  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  tea-caddy  upc-i  the  shelf. 

Moore  took  it  down,  turned  it  in  his  hands  and 
looked  at  Bruce. 

"Old  country,  eh?" 

"My  mother's,"  said  Bruce,  soberly. 

"I  could  have  sworn  it  was  my  aunt's  in  Bal- 
leymena, "  said  Moore.  "My  aunt  lived  in  a  little 
stone  cottage  with  roses  all  over  the  front  of  it." 
And  on  he  went  into  an  enthusiastic  description 
of  his  early  home.  His  voice  was  full  of  music, 
soft  and  southing,  and  poor  Bruce  sank  back  and 
listened,  the  glitter  fading  from  his  eyes. 

The  Duke  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

"Not  too  bad,  eh?"  said  The  Duke,  after  a  few 
moments'  silence. 

"Let's  put  up  the  horses,"  I  suggested. 
"They  won't  want  us  for  half  an  hour." 

When  we  came  in,  the  room  had  been  set  in 
order,  the  tea-kettle  was  singing,  the  bedclothes 
straightened  out,  and  Moore  had  just  finished 
washing  the  blood  stains  from  Bruce 's  arms  and 
neck. 


94  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Just  in  time,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  like  to  tackle 
these,"  pointing  to  the  bandages. 

All  night  long  Moore  soothed  and  tended  the 
sick  man,  now  singing  softly  to  him,  and  again 
beguiling  him  with  tales  that  meant  nothing,  but 
that  had  a  strange  power  to  quiet  the  nervous 
restlessness,  due  partly  to  the  pain  of  the 
wounded  arm  and  partly  to  the  nerve-wrecking 
from  his  months  of  dissipation.  The  Duke 
seemed  uncomfortable  enough.  He  spoke  to 
Bruce  once  or  twice,  but  the  only  answer  was  a 
groan  or  curse  with  an  increase  of  restlessness. 

"He'll  have  a  close  squeak,"  said  The  Duke. 
The  carelessness  of  the  tone  was  a  little  overdone, 
but  The  Pilot  was  stirred  up  by  it. 

"He  has  not  been  fortunate  in  his  friends,"  he 
said,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"A  man  ought  to  know  himself  when  the  pace 
is  too  swift,"  said  The  Duke,  a  little  more  quickly 
than  was  his  wont. 

"You  might  have  done  anything  with  him. 
Why  didn't  you  help  him?"  Moore's  tones  were 
stern  and  very  steady,  and  he  never  moved  his 
eyes  from  the  other  man's  face,  but  the  only 
reply  he  got  was  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

When  the  gray  of  the  morning  was  coming  in 


The  Pilot's  Grip  95 

at  the  window  The  Duke  rose  up,  gave  himself  a 
little  shake,  and  said : 

"I  am  not  of  any  service  here.  I  shall  come 
back  in  the  evening." 

He  went  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking 
down  upon  the  hot,  fevered  face ;  then,  turning  to 
me,  he  asked: 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Can't  say!  The  bromide  is  holding  him  down 
just  now.  His  blood  is  bad  for  that  wound. " 

"Can  I  get  anything?"  I  knew  him  well 
enough  to  recognize  the  anxiety  under  his 
indifferent  manner. 

"The  Fort  doctor  ought  to  be  got." 

He  nodded  and  went  out. 

"Have  breakfast?"  called  out  Moore  from  the 
door. 

"I  shall  get  some  at  the  Fort,  thanks.  They 
won't  take  any  hurt  from  me  there,"  he  said, 
smiling  his  cynical  smile. 

Moore  opened  his  eyes  in  surprise. 

"What's  that  for?"  he  asked  me. 

"Well,  he  is  rather  cut  up,  and  you  rather 
rubbed  it  into  him,  you  know,"  I  said,  for  I 
thought  Moore  a  little  hard. 

"Did  I  say  anything  untrue?' 


96  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Well,  not  untrue,  perhaps;  but  truth  is  like 
medicine — not  always  good  to  take. ' '  At  which 
Moore  was  silent  till  his  patient  needed  him  again. 

It  was  a  weary  day.  The  intense  pain  from 
the  wound,  and  the  high  fever  from  the  poison 
in  his  blood  kept  the  poor  fellow  in  delirium  till 
evening,  when  The  Duke  rode  up  with  the  Fort 
doctor.  Jingo  appeared  as  nearly  played  out  as  a 
horse  of  his  spirit  ever  allowed  himself  to  become. 

"Seventy  miles,"  said  The  Duke,  swinging 
himself  off  the  saddle.  "The  doctor  was  ten 
miles  out.  How  is  he?" 

I  shook  my  head,  and  he  led  away  his  horse  to 
give  him  a  rub  and  a  feed. 

Meantime  the  doctor,  who  was  of  the  army  and 
had  seen  service,  was  examining  his  patient.  He 
grew  more  and  more  puzzled  as  he  noted  the 
various  symptoms.  Finally  he  broke  out : 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  him?  Why  is 
he  in  this  condition?  This  fleabite  doesn't 
account  for  all, ' '  pointing  to  the  wound. 

We  stood  like  children  reproved.  Then  The 
Duke  said,  hesitatingly: 

"I  fear,  doctor,  the  life  has  been  a  little  too 
hard  for  him.  He  had  a  severe  nervous  attack — 
seeing  things,  you  know. ' ' 


The  Pilot's  Grip  97 

' 'Yes,  I  know,"  stormed  the  old  doctor.  "I 
know  you  well  enough,  with  your  head  of  cast- 
iron  and  no  nerves  to  speak  of.  I  know  the 
crowd  and  how  you  lead  them.  Infernal  fools! 
You'll  get  your  turn  some  day.  I've  warned  you 
before. ' ' 

The  Duke  was  standing  up  before  the  doctor 
during  this  storm,  smiling  slightly.  All  at  once 
the  smile  faded  out  and  he  pointed  to  the  bed. 
Bruce  was  sitting  up  quiet  and  steady.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  The  Duke. 

"Don't  mind  the  old  fool,"  he  said,  holding 
The  Duke's  hand  and  looking  up  at  him  as  fondly 
as  if  he  were  a  girl.  "It's  my  own  funeral — 
funeral?"  he  paused — "Perhaps  it  may  be — who 
knows? — feel  queer  enough — but  remember,  Duke 
— it's  my  own  fault — don't  listen  to  those  bally 
fools,"  looking  towards  Moore  and  the  doctor. 
"My  own  fault" — his  voice  died  down — "my  own 
fault." 

The  Duke  bent  over  him  and  laid  him  back  on 
the  pillow,  saying,  "Thanks,  old  chap,  you're 
good  stuff.  I'll  not  forget.  Just  keep  quiet  and 
you'll  be  all  right."  He  passed  his  cool,  firm 
hand  over  the  hot  brow  of  the  man  looking  up  at 
him  with  love  in  his  eyes,  and  in  a  few  moments 


98  The  Sky  Pilot 

Bruce  fell  asleep.  Then  The  Duke  lifted  himself 
up,  and  facing  the  doctor,  said  in  his  coolest  tone : 

"Your  words  are  more  true  than  opportune, 
doctor.  Your  patient  will  need  all  your  atten- 
tion. As  for  my  morals,  Mr.  Moore  kindly 
entrusts  himself  with  the  care  of  them."  This 
with  a  bow  toward  The  Pilot. 

"I  wish  him  joy  of  his  charge,"  snorted  the 
doctor,  turning  again  to  the  bed,  where  Bruce 
had  already  passed  into  delirium. 

The  memory  of  that  vigil  was  like  a  horrible 
nightmare  for  months.  Moore  lay  on  the  floor 
and  slept.  The  Duke  rode  off  somewhither. 
The  old  doctor  and  I  kept  watch.  All  night  poor 
Bruce  raved  in  the  wildest  delirium,  singing,  now 
psalms,  now  songs,  swearing  at  the  cattle  or  his 
poker  partners,  and  now  and  then,  in  quieter 
moments,  he  was  back  in  his  old  home,  a  boy, 
with  a  boy's  friends  and  sports.  Nothing  could 
check  the  fever.  It  baffled  the  doctor,  who  often, 
during  the  night,  declared  that  there  was  "no 
sense  in  a  wound  like  that  working  up  such  a 
fever, ' '  adding  curses  upon  the  folly  of  The  Duke 
and  his  Company. 

"You  don't  think  he  will  not  get  better,  doc- 
tor?" I  asked,  in  answer  to  one  of  his  outbreaks. 


The  Pilot's  Grip  99 

"He  ought  to  get  over  this,"  he  answered, 
impatiently,  "but  I  believe,"  he  added,  deliber- 
ately, "he'll  have  to  go." 

Everything  stood  still  for  a  moment.  It  seemed 
impossible.  Two  days  ago  full  of  life,  now  on  the 
way  out.  There  crowded  in  upon  me  thoughts  of 
his  home;  his  mother,  whose  letters  he  used  to 
show  me  full  of  anxious  love ;  his  wild  life  here, 
with  all  its  generous  impulses, its  mistakes,  its  folly. 

"How  long  will  he  last?"  I  asked,  and  my  lips 
were  dry  and  numb. 

"Perhaps  twenty- four  hours,  perhaps  longer. 
He  can't  throw  off  the  poison." 

The  old  doctor  proved  a  true  prophet.  After 
another  day  of  agonized  delirium  he  sank  into  a 
stupor  which  lasted  through  the  night. 

Then  the  change  came.  As  the  light  began  to 
grow  at  the  eastern  rim  of  the  prairie  and  tip  the 
far  mountains  in  the  west,  Bruce  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  about  upon  us.  The  doctor  had 
gone ;  The  Duke  had  not  come  back ;  Moore  and  I 
were  alone.  He  gazed  at  us  steadily  for  some 
moments;  read  our  faces;  a  look  of  wonder  came 
into  his  eyes. 

"Is  it  coming?"  he  asked  in  a  faint,  awed  voice. 
"Do  you  really  think  I  must  go?" 


100  The  Sky  Pilot 

The  eager  appeal  in  his  voice  and  the  wistful 
longing  in  the  wide-open,  startled  eyes  were  too 
much  for  Moore.  He  backed  behind  me  and  I 
could  hear  him  weeping  like  a  baby.  Bruce  heard 
him,  too. 

"Is  that  The  Pilot?"  he  asked.  Instantly 
Moore  pulled  himself  up,  wiped  his  eyes  and 
came  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed  and 
looked  down,  smiling. 

"Do  you  say  I  am  dying?"  The  voice  was 
strained  in  its  earnestness.  I  felt  a  thrill  of 
admiration  go  through  me  as  the  Pilot  answered 
in  a  sweet,  clear  voice:  "They  say  so,  Bruce. 
But  you  are  not  afraid?" 

Bruce  kept  his  eyes  on  his  face  and  answered 
with  grave  hesitation : 

"No — not— afraid — but  I'd  like  to  live  a  little 
longer.  I've  made  such  a  mess  of  it,  I'd  like  to 
try  again."  Then  he  paused,  and  his  lips 
quivered  a  little.  "There's  my  mother,  you 
know,"  he  added,  apologetically,  "and  Jim." 
Jim  was  his  younger  brother  and  sworn  chum. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Bruce,  but  it  won't  be  very  long 
for  them,  too,  and  it's  a  good  place." 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  all — always  did — talked  rot 
— you'll  forgive  me  that?" 


The  Pilot's  Grip  101 

'Don't,  don't,"  said  Moore  quickly,  with  sharp 
pain  in  his  voice,  and  Bruce  smiled  a  little  and 
closed  his  eyes,  saying:  "I'm  tired."  But  he 
immediately  opened  them  again  and  looked  up. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Moore,  smiling  down  into 
his  eyes. 

"The  Duke,"  the  poor  lips  whispered. 

"He  is  coming,"  said  Moore,  confidently, 
though  how  he  knew  I  could  not  tell.  But  even 
as  he  spoke,  looking  out  of  the  window,  I  saw 
Jingo  come  swinging  round  the  bluff.  Bruce 
heard  the  beat  of  his  hoofs,  smiled,  opened  his 
eyes  and  waited.  The  leap  of  joy  in  his  eyes  as 
The  Duke  came  in,  clean,  cool  and  fresh  as  the 
morning,  went  to  my  heart. 

Neither  man  said  a  word,  but  Bruce  took  hold 
of  The  Duke's  hand  in  both  of  his.  He  was  fast 
growing  weaker.  I  gave  him  brandy,  and  he 
recovered  a  little  strength. 

"I  am  dying,  Duke,"  he  said,  quietly.  "Prom- 
ise you  won't  blame  yourself." 

"I  can't,  old  man,"  said  The  Duke,  with  a 
shudder.  "Would  to  heaven  I  could." 

"You  were  too  strong  for  me,  and  you  didn't 
think,  did  you?"  and  the  weak  voice  had  a  caress 
in  it 


102  The  Sky  Pilot 

"No,  no!  God  knows,"  said  The  Duke, 
hurriedly. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  again  Bruce 
opened  his  eyes  and  whispered* 

"The  Pilot." 

Moore  came  to  him. 

"Read  'The  Prodigal,*  "  he  said  faintly,  and  in 
Moore's  clear,  sweet  voice  the  music  of  that 
matchless  story  fell  upon  our  ears. 

Again  Bruce's  eyes  summoned  me.  I  bent 
over  him. 

"My  letter,"  he  said,  faintly,  "in  my  coat " 

I  brought  to  him  the  last  letter  from  his  mother. 
He  held  the  envelope  before  his  eyes,  then 
handed  it  to  me,  whispering: 

"Read." 

I  opened  the  letter  and  looked  at  the  words, 
"My  darling  Davie."  My  tongue  stuck  and  not 
a  sound  could  I  make.  Moore  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  it  from  me.  The  Duke  rose  to  go  out, 
calling  me  with  his  eyes,  but  Bruce  motioned  him 
to  stay,  and  he  sat  down  and  bowed  his  head, 
while  Moore  read  the  letter. 

His  tones  were  clear  and  steady  till  he  came  to 
the  last  words,  when  his  voice  broke  and  ended 
in  a  sob : 


The  Pilot's  Grip  103 

"And  oh,  Davie,  laddie,  if  ever  your  heart  turns 
home  again,  remember  the  door  is  aye  open,  and 
it's  joy  you'll  bring  with  you  to  us  all." 

Bruce  lay  quite  still,  and,  from  his  closed  eyes, 
big  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.  It  was  his  last 
farewell  to  her  whose  love  had  been  to  him  the 
anchor  to  all  things  pure  here  and  to  heaven 
beyond. 

He  took  the  letter  from  Moore's  hand,  put  it 
with  difficulty  to  his  lips,  and  then,  touching  the 
open  Bible,  he  said,  between  his  breaths: 

"It's — very  like — there's  really — no  fear,  is 
there?" 

"No,  no!"  said  Moore,  with  cheerful,  confident 
voice,  though  his  tears  were  flowing.  "No  fear 
of  your  welcome." 

His  eyes  met  mine.  I  bent  over  him.  "Tell 
her "  and  his  voice  faded  away. 

"What  shall  I  tell  her?"  I  asked,  trying  to 
recall  him.  But  the  message  was  never  given. 
He  moved  one  hand  slowly  toward  The  Duke  till 
it  touched  his  head.  The  Duke  lifted  his  face 
and  looked  down  at  him,  and  then  he  did  a  beau- 
tiful thing  for  which  I  forgave  him  much.  He 
stooped  over  and  kissed  the  lips  grown  so  white, 
and  then  the  brow.  The  light  came  back  into  the 


104  The  Sky  Pilot 

eyes  of  the  dying  man,  he  smiled  once  more,  and 
smilingly  faced  toward  the  Great  Beyond.  And 
the  morning  air,  fresh  from  the  sun-tipped  mount- 
ains and  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the  June  roses, 
came  blowing  soft  and  cool  through  the  open 
window  upon  the  dead,  smiling  face.  And  it 
seemed  fitting  so.  It  came  from  the  land  of  the 
Morning. 

Again  The  Duke  did  a  beautiful  thing;  for, 
reaching  across  his  dead  friend,  he  offered  his 
hand  to  The  Pilot.  "Mr.  Moore,"  he  said,  with 
fine  courtesy,  "you  area  brave  man  and  a  good 
man;  I  ask  your  forgiveness  for  much  rudeness." 

But  Moore  only  shook  his  head  while  he  took 
the  outstretched  hand,  and  said,  brokenly: 

"Don't!     I  can't  stand  it." 

"The  Company  of  the  Noble  Seven  will  meet 
no  more,"  said  The  Duke,  with  a  faint  smile. 

They  did  meet,  however;  but  when  they  did, 
The  Pilot  was  in  the  chair,  and  it  was  not  for 
poker. 

The  Pilot  had  "got  his  grip,"  as  Bill  said 


rwen 


205 


CHAPTER   IX 

GWEN 

It  was  not  many  days  after  my  arrival  in  the 
Foothill  country  that  I  began  to  hear  of  Gwen. 
They  all  had  stories  of  her.  The  details  were  not 
many,  but  the  impression  was  vivid.  She  lived 
remote  from  that  centre  of  civilization  known  as 
Swan  Creek  in  the  postal  guide,  but  locally  as 
Old  Latour's,  far  up  among  the  hills  near  the 
Devil's  Lake,  and  from  her  father's  ranch  she 
never  ventured.  But  some  of  the  men  had  had 
glimpses  of  her  and  had  come  to  definite  opinions 
regarding  her. 

"What  is  she  like?"  I  asked  Bill  one  day,  trying 
to  pin  him  down  to  something  like  a  descriptive 
account  of  her. 

"Like!  She's  a  terrer,"  he  said,  with  slow 
emphasis,  "a  holy  terrer." 

"But  what  is  she  like?  What  do.es  she  look 
like?"  I  asked  impatiently. 

"Look  like?"     He  considered  a  moment,  looked 

107 


io8  The  Sky  Pilot 

slowly  round  as  if  searching  for  a  simile,  then 
answered:  "I  dunno." 

"Don't  know?  What  do  you  mean?  Haven't 
you  seen  her?" 

"  Yeh !     But  she  ain't  like  nothin'. " 

Bill  was  quite  decided  upon  this  point. 

I  tried  again. 

"Well,  what  sort  of  hair  has  she  got?  She's 
got  hair,  I  suppose?" 

"Hayer!  Well,  a  few!"  said  Bill,  with  some 
choice  combinations  of  profanity  in  repudiation 
of  my  suggestion.  "Yards  of  it!  Red!" 

"Git  out!"  contradicted  Hi.  "Red!  Tain 't  no 
more  red  than  mine!" 

Bill  regarded  Hi's  hair  critically. 

"What  color  do  you  put  onto  your  old  brush?" 
he  asked  cautiously. 

"  'Tain't  no  difference.     'Tain't  red,  anyhow." 

"Red!  Well,  not  quite  exactly,"  and  Bill  went 
iff  into  a  low,  long,  choking  chuckle,  ejaculating 
now  and  then,  "Red!  Jee-mi-ny  Ann!  Red!' 

"No,  Hi,"  he  went  on,  recovering  himself  with 
the  same  abruptness  as  he  used  with  his  bronco, 
and  looking  at  his  friend  with  a  face  even  more 
than  usually  solemn,  "your  hayer  ain't  red,  Hi; 
don't  let  any  of  your  relatives  persuade  you  to 


Gwen  109 

that.  'Tain't  red!"  and  he  threatened  to  go  off 
again,  but  pulled  himself  up  with  dangerous 
suddenness.  "It  may  be  blue,  cerulyum  blue  or 

even  purple,  but  red !"  He  paused  violently, 

looking  at  his  friend  as  if  he  found  him  a  new 
and  interesting  object  of  study  upon  which  he 
could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  Nor  could  he 
be  induced  to  proceed  with  the  description  he  had 
begun. 

But  Hi,  paying  no  attention  to  Bill's  oration, 
took  up  the  subject  with  enthusiasm. 

"She  kin  ride — she's  a  reg'lar  buster  to  ride, 
ain't  she,  Bill?"  Bill  nodded.  "She  kin  bunch 
cattle  an'  cut  out  an'  yank  a  steer  up  to  any 
cowboy  on  the  range. ' ' 

"Why,  how  big  is  she?" 

"Big?  Why,  she's  just  a  kid!  'Tain't  the 
bigness  of  her,  it's  the  nerve.  She's  got  the 
coldest  kind  of  nerve  you  ever  seen.  Hain't  she, 
Bill?"  And  again  Bill  nodded. 

"  'Member  the  day  she  dropped  that  steer, 
Bill?"  went  on  Hi. 

"What  was  that?"  I  asked,  eager  for  a  yarn. 

"Oh,  nuthiny  said  Bill. 

"Nuthin' !"  retorted  Hi.     "Pretty  big  nuthin' !" 

"What  was  it?"  I  urged. 


no  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Oh,  Bill  here  did  some  funny  work  at  old 
Meredith's  round-up,  but  he  don't  speak  of  it. 
He's  shy,  you  see,"  and  Hi  grinned. 

"Well,  there  ain't  no  occasion  for  your  pro- 
ceedin'  onto  that  tact,"  said  Bill  disgustedly, 
and  Hi  loyally  refrained,  so  I  have  never  yet 
got  the  rights  of  the  story.  But  from  what  I  did 
hear  I  gathered  that  Bill,  at  the  risk  of  his  life, 
had  pulled  The  Duke  from  under  the  hoofs  of  a 
mad  steer,  and  that  little  Gwen  had,  in  the  cool- 
est possible  manner,  "sailed  in  on  her  bronco" 
and,  by  putting  two  bullets  into  the  steer's  head, 
had  saved  them  both  from  great  danger,  perhaps 
from  death,  for  the  rest  of  the  cattle  were  crowd- 
ing near.  Of  course  Bill  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  speak  of  the  incident.  A  true  western 
man  will  never  hesitate  to  tell  you  what  he  can  do, 
but  of  what  he  has  done  he  does  not  readily  speak. 

The  only  other  item  that  Hi  contributed  to  the 
sketch  of  Gwen  was  that  her  temper  could  blaze 
if  the  occasion  demanded. 

"  'Member  young  Hill,  Bill?" 

Bill"  'membered." 

"Didn't  she  cut  into  him  sudden?  Sarved 
him  right,  too." 

"What  did  she  do?" 


Gwen  in 

"Cut  him  across  the  face  with  her  quirt  in 
good  style. ' ' 

"What  for?" 

"Knockin*  about  her  Indian  Joe." 

Joe  was,  as  I  came  to  learn,  Ponka's  son  and 
Gwen's  most  devoted  slave. 

"Oh,  she  ain't  no  refrigerator." 

"Yes,"  assented  Bill.     "She's  a  leetle  swift." 

Then,  as  if  fearing  he  had  been  apologizing  for 
her,  he  added,  with  the  air  of  one  settling  the 
question:  "But  she's  good  stock!  She  suits 
me!" 

The  Duke  helped  me  to  another  side  of  her 
character. 

"She  is  a  remarkable  child,"  he  said,  one  day. 
"Wild  and  shy  as  a  coyote,  but  fearless,  quite; 
and  with  a  heart  full  of  passions.  Meredith,  the 
Old  Timer,  you  know,  has  .kept  her  up  there 
among  the  hills.  She  sees  no  one  but  himself 
and  Ponka's  Blackfeet  relations,  who  treat  her 
like  a  goddess  and  help  to  spoil  her  utterly.  She 
knows  their  lingo  and  their  ways — goes  off  with 
them  for  a  week  at  a  time. ' ' 

"What!     With  the  Blackfeet?" 

"Ponka  and  Joe,  of  course,  go  along;  but  even 
without  them  she  is  as  safe  as  if  surrounded  by 


112  The  Sky  Pilot 

the  Coldstream  Guards,  but  she  has  given  them 
up  for  some  time  now." 

"And  at  home?"  I  asked.  "Has  she  any  edu- 
cation? Can  she  read  or  write?" 

"Not  she.  She  can  make  her  own  dresses, 
moccasins  and  leggings.  She  can  cook  and 
wash — that  is,  when  she  feels  in  the  mood.  And 
she  knows  all  about  the  birds  and  beasts  and 
flowers  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but— -education ! 
Why,  she  is  hardly  civilized!" 

"What  a  shame!"  I  said.     "How  old  is  she?" 

"Oh,  a  mere  child;  fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  imag- 
ine; but  a  woman  in  many  things." 

"And  what  does  her  father  say  to  all  this? 
Can  he  control  her?" 

"Control!"  said  The  Duke,  in  utter  astonish- 
ment. "Why,  bless  your  soul,  nothing  in  heaven 
or  earth  could  control  her.  Wait  till  you  see  her 
stand  with  her  proud  little  head  thrown  back, 
giving  orders  to  Joe,  and  you  will  never  again 
connect  the  idea  of  control  with  Gwen.  She 
might  be  a  princess  for  the  pride  of  her.  I've 
seen  some,  too,  in  my  day,  but  none  to  touch  her 
for  sheer,  imperial  pride,  little  Lucifer  that  she 
is." 

"And  how    does  her  father  stand  her    non- 


Gwen  113 

sense?"  I  asked,  for  I  confess  I  was  not  much 
taken  with  the  picture  The  Duke  had  drawn. 

"Her  father  simply  follows  behind  her  and 
adores,  as  do  all  things  that  come  near  her,  down, 
or  up,  perhaps,  to  her  two  dogs — Wolf  and  Loo—- 
for either  of  which  she  would  readily  die  if  need 
be.  Still,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "it  is  a 
shame,  as  you  say.  She  ought  to  know  some- 
thing of  the  refinements  of  civilization,  to  which, 
after  all,  she  belongs,  and  from  which  none  of  us 
can  hope  to  escape."  The  Duke  was  silent  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  added,  with  some  hesi- 
tation: *'Then,  too,  she  is  quite  a  pagan;  never 
saw  a  prayer-book,  you  know." 

And  so  it  came  about,  chiefly  through  The 
Duke's  influence,  I  imagine^  that  I  was  engaged 
by  the  Old  Timer  to  go  up  to  his  ranch  every 
week  and  teach  his  daughter  something  of  the 
elementaries  of  a  lady's  education. 

My  introduction  was  ominous  of  the  many 
things  I  was  to  suffer  of  that  same  young  maiden 
before  I  had  finished  my  conrse  with  her.  The 
Old  Timer  had  given  careful  directions  as  to  the 
trail  that  would  lead  me  to  the  canyon  where  he 
was  to  meet  me.  Up  the  Swan  went  the  trail, 
winding  ever  downward  into  deeper  and  narrower 


H4  The  Sky  Pilot 

coulees  and  up  to  higher  open  sunlit  slopes,  tin 
suddenly  it  settled  into  a  valley  which  began  with 
great  width  and  narrowed  to  a  canyon  whose 
rocky  sides  were  dressed  out  with  shrubs  and 
trailing  vines  and  wet  with  trickling  rivulets 
from  the  numerous  springs  that  oozed  and  gushed 
from  the  black,  glistening  rocks.  This  canyon 
was  an  eerie  place  of  which  ghostly  tales  were 
told  from  the  old  Blackfeet  times.  And  to  this 
day  no  Blackfoot  will  dare  to  pass  through  this 
black-walled,  oozy,  glistening  canyon  after  the 
moon  Las  passed  the  western  lip.  But  in  the 
warm  light  of  broad  day  the  canyon  was  a  good 
enough  place,  cool  and  sweet,  and  I  lingered 
through,  waiting  for  the  Old  Timer,  who  failed 
to  appear  till  the  shadows  began  to  darken  its 
western  black  sides. 

Out  of  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  the  trail 
climbed  to  a  wide  stretch  of  prairie  that  swept  up 
over  soft  hills  to  the  left  and  down  to  the  bright 
gleaming  waters  of  the  Devil's  Lake  on  the  right. 
In  the  sunlight  the  lake  lay  like  a  gem  radiant 
with  many  colors,  the  far  side  black  in  the  shadow 
of  the  crowding  pines,  then  in  the  middle  deep, 
blue  and  purple,  and  nearer,  many  shades  of 
emerald  that  ran  quite  to  the  white,  sandy  beach. 


Gwen  115 

Right  in  front  stood  the  ranch  buildings,  upon  a 
slight  rising  ground  and  surrounded  by  a  sturdy 
palisade  of  upright  pointed  poles.  This  was  the 
castle  of  the  princess.  I  rode  up  to  the  open 
gate,  then  turned  and  stood  to  look  down  upon 
the  marvellous  lake  shining  and  shimmering  with 
its  many  radiant  colors.  Suddenly  there  was  an 
awful  roar,  my  pony  shot  round  upon  his  hind 
legs  after  his  beastly  cayuse  manner,  deposited 
me  sitting  upon  the  ground  and  fled  down  the 
trail,  pursued  by  two  huge  dogs  that  brushed  past 
me  as  I  fell.  I  was  aroused  from  my  amazement 
by  a  peal  of  laughter,  shrill  but  full  of  music. 
Turning,  I  saw  my  pupil,  as  I  guessed,  standing  at 
the  head  of  a  most  beautiful  pinto  (spotted)  pony 
with  a  heavy  cattle  quirt  in  her  hand.  I  scrambled 
to  my  feet  and  said,  somewhat  angrily,  I  fear : 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  Why  don't  you 
call  back  your  dogs?  They  will  chase  my  pony 
beyond  all  reach. ' ' 

She  lifted  her  little  head,  shook  back  her 
masses  of  brown-red  hair,  looked  at  me  as  if  I 
were  quite  beneath  contempt  and  said:  "No, 
they  will  kill  him.  '* 

"Then,"  said  I,  for  I  was  very  angry,  "I  will 
kill  them,"  pulling  at  the  revolver  in  my  belt. 


n6  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Then,"  she  said,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
noticed  her  eyes  blue-black,  with  gray  rims,  "I 
will  kill  you,"  and  she  whipped  out  an  ugly- 
looking  revolver.  From  her  face  I  had  no  doubt 
that  she  would  not  hesitate  to  do  as  she  had  said. 
I  changed  my  tactics,  for  I  was  anxious  about  my 
pony,  and  said,  with  my  best  smile : 

"Can't  you  call  them  back?  Won't  they  obey 
you?" 

Her  face  changed  in  a  moment. 

"Is  it  your  pony?  Do  you  love  him  very 
much?" 

"Dearly!"  I  said,  persuading  myself  of  a  sud- 
den affection  for  the  cranky  little  brute. 

She  sprang  upon  her  pinto  and  set  off  down  the 
trail.  The  pony  was  now  coursing  up  and  down 
the  slopes,  doubling  like  a  hare,  instinctively 
avoiding  the  canyon  where  he  would  be  cornered. 
He  was  mad  with  terror  at  the  huge  brutes  that 
were  silently  but  with  awful  and  sure  swiftness 
running  him  down. 

The  girl  on  the  pinto  whistled  shrilly,  and 
called  to  her  dogs:  "Down,  Wolf!  Back,  Loo!" 
but,  running  low,  with  long,  stretched  bodies, 
they  heeded  not,  but  sped  on,  ever  gaining  upon 
the  pony  that  now  circled  toward  the  pinto.  As 


Gwen  117 

they  drew  near  in  their  circling,  the  girl  urged 
her  pinto  to  meet  them,  loosening  her  lariat  as 
she  went.  As  the  pony  neared  the  pinto  he 
slackened  his  speed ;  immediately  the  nearer  dog 
gathered  herself  in  two  short  jumps  and  sprang 
for  the  pony's  throat.  But,  even  as  she  sprang, 
the  lariat  whirled  round  the  girl's  head  and  fell 
swift  and  sure  about  the  dog's  neck,  and  next 
moment  she  lay  choking  upon  the  prairie.  Her 
mate  paused,  looked  back,  and  gave  up  the  chase. 
But  dire  vengeance  overtook  them,  for,  like  one 
possessed,  the  girl  fell  upon  them  with  her  quirt 
and  beat  them  one  after  the  other  till,  in  pity  for 
the  brutes,  I  interposed. 

"They  shall  do  as  I  say  or  I  shall  kill  them!  I 
shall  kill  them!"  she  cried,  raging  and  stamping. 

"Better  shoot  them,"  I  suggested,  pulling  out 
my  pistol. 

Immediately  she  flung  herself  upon  the  one  that 
moaned  and  whined  at  her  feet,  crying : 

"If  you  dare!  If  you  dare!"  Then  she  burst 
into  passionate  sobbing.  ' '  You  bad  Loo !  You  bad, 
dear  old  Loo !  But  you  w ere  bad — you  know  you 
were  bad!"  and  so  she  went  on  with  her  arms 
about  Loo's  neck  till  Loo,  whining  and  quivering 
with  love  and  delight,  threatened  to  go  quite 


U8  The  Sky  Pilot 

mad,  and  Wolf,  standing  majestically  near,  broke 
into  short  howls  of  impatience  for  his  turn  of 
caressing.  They  made  a  strange  group,  those 
three  wild  things,  equally  fierce  and  passionate  in 
hate  and  in  love. 

Suddenly  the  girl  remembered  me,  and  stand- 
ing up  she  said,  half  ashamed : 

"They  always  obey  me.  They  are  mine,  but 
they  kill  any  strange  thing  that  comes  in  through 
the  gate.  They  are  allowed  to. " 

"It  is  a  pleasant  whim." 

"What?" 

"I  mean,  isn't  that  dangerous  to  strangers?" 

"Oh,  no  one  ever  comes  alone,  except  The 
Duke.  And  they  keep  off  the  wolves." 

"The  Duke  comes,  does  he?" 

"Yes!"  and  her  eyes  lit  up.  "He  is  my  friend. 
He  calls  me  his  'princess,'  and  he  teaches  me  to 
talk  and  tells  me  stories — oh,  wonderful  stories!" 

I  looked  in  wonder  at  her  face,  so  gentle,  so  girl- 
ish, and  tried  to  think  back  to  the  picture  of  the 
girl  who  a  few  moments  before  had  so  coolly 
threatened  to  shoot  me  and  had  so  furiously 
beaten  her  dogs. 

I  kept  her  talking  of  The  Duke  as  we  walked 
back  to  the  gate,  watching  her  face  the  while.  It 


Gwen  119 

was  not  beautiful ;  it  was  too  thin,  and  the  mouth 
was  too  large.  But  the  teeth  were  good,  and  the 
eyes,  blue-black  with  gray  rims,  looked  straight 
at  you ;  true  eyes  and  brave,  whether  in  love  or 
in  war.  Her  hair  was  her  glory.  Red  it  was,  in 
spite  of  Hi's  denial,  but  of  such  marvellous, 
indescribable  shade  that  in  certain  lights,  as  she 
rode  over  the  prairie,  it  streamed  behind  her  like 
a  purple  banner.  A  most  confusing  and  bewilder- 
ing color,  but  quite  in  keeping  with  the  nature  of 
the  owner. 

She  gave  her  pinto  to  Joe  and,  standing  at  the 
door,  welcomed  me  with  a  dignity  and  gracious- 
ness  that  made  me  think  that  The  Duke  was  not 
far  wrong  when  he  named  her  "Princess." 

The  door  opened  upon  the  main  or  living  room. 
It  was  a  long  apartment,  with  low  ceiling  and 
walls  of  hewn  logs  chinked  and  plastered  and  all 
beautifully  whitewashed  and  clean.  The  tables, 
chairs  and  benches  were  all  home-made.  On  the 
floor  were  magnificent  skins  of  wolf,  bear,  musk 
ox  and  mountain  goat.  The  walls  were  decorated 
with  heads  and  horns  of  deer  and  mountain 
sheep,  eagles'  wings  and  a  beautiful  breast  of  a 
loon,  which  Gwen  had  shot  and  of  which  she  was 
very  proud.  At  one  end  of  the  room  a  huge 


180  The  Sky  Pilot 

stone  fireplace  stood  radiant  in  its  summer  decora- 
tions of  ferns  and  grasses  and  wild-flowers.  At 
the  other  end  a  door  opened  into  another  room, 
smaller  and  richly  furnished  with  relics  of  former 
grandeur. 

Everything  was  clean  and  well  kept.  Every 
nook,  shelf  and  corner  was  decked  with  flowers 
and  ferns  from  the  canyon. 

A  strange  house  it  was,  full  of  curious  contrasts, 
but  it  fitted  this  quaint  child  that  welcomed  me 
with  such  gracious  courtesy. 


Gwen's   First   Prayers 


121 


CHAPTER    X 

OWEN'S    FIRST    PRAYERS 

It  was  with  hesitation,  almost  with  fear,  that  I 
began  with  Gwen ;  but  even  had  I  been  able  to 
foresee  the  endless  series  of  exasperations  through 
which  she  was  destined  to  conduct  me,  still  would 
I  have  undertaken  my  task.  For  the  child,  with 
all  her  wilfulness,  her  tempers  and  her  pride, 
made  me,  as  she  did  all  others,  her  willing  slave. 

Her  lessons  went  on,  brilliantly  or  not  at  all, 
according  to  her  sweet  will.  She  learned  to  read 
with  extraordinary  rapidity,  for  she  was  eager  to 
know  more  of  that  great  world  of  which  The 
Duke  had  told  her  such  thrilling  tales.  Writing 
she  abhorred.  She  had  no  one  to  write  to.  Why 
should  she  cramp  her  ringers  over  these  crooked 
little  marks?  But  she  mastered  with  hardly  a 
struggle  the  mysteries  of  figures,  for  she  would 
have  to  sell  her  cattle,  and  "dad  doesn't  know 
when  they  are  cheating. "  Her  ideas  of  education 
were  purely  utilitarian,  and  what  did  not  appear 

"3 


124  The  Sky  Pilot 

immediately  useful  she  refused  to  trifle  with. 
And  so  all  through  the  following  long  winter  she 
vexed  my  righteous  soul  with  her  wilfulness  and 
pride.  An  appeal  to  her  father  was  idle.  She 
would  wind  her  long,  thin  arms  about  his  neck 
and  let  her  waving  red  hair  float  over  him  until 
the  old  man  was  quite  helpless  to  exert  authority. 
The  Duke  could  do  most  with  her.  To  please 
him  she  would  struggle  with  her  crooked  letters 
for  an  hour  at  a  time,  but  even  his  influence  and 
authority  had  its  limits. 

"Must  I?"  she  said  one  day,  in  answer  to  a 
demand  of  his  for  more  faithful  study;  "must  If" 
And  throwing  up  her  proud  little  head,  and 
shaking  back  with  a  trick  she  had  her  streaming 
red  hair,  she  looked  straight  at  him  from  her 
blue-gray  eyes  and  asked  the  monosyllabic  ques- 
tion, "Why?"  And  The  Duke  looked  back  at  her 
with  his  slight  smile  for  a  few  moments  and  then 
said  in  cold,  even  tones: 

"I  really  don't  know  why,"  and  turned  his 
back  on  her.  Immediately  she  sprang  at  him, 
shook  him  by  the  arm,  and,  quivering  with  pas- 
sion, cried: 

"You  are  not  to  speak  to  me  like  that,  and  you 
are  not  to  turn  your  back  that  way!" 


Gwen's  First  Prayers  125 

"What  a  little  princess  it  is,"  he  said  admir- 
ingly, "and  what  a  time  she  will  give  herself 
some  day ! ' '  Then  he  added,  smiling  sadly : ' '  Was 
I  rude,  Gwen?  Then  I  am  sorry."  Her  rage 
was  gone,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  could  have 
held  him  by  the  feet.  As  it  was,  too  proud  to 
show  her  feelings,  she  just  looked  at  him  with 
softening  eyes,  and  then  sat  down  to  the  work  she 
had  refused.  This  was  after  the  advent  of  The 
Pilot  at  Swan  Creek,  and,  as  The  Duke  rode 
home  with  me  that  night,  after  long  musing  he 
said  with  hesitation:  "She  ought  to  have  some 
religion,  poor  child;  she  will  grow  up  a  perfect 
little  devil.  The  Pilot  might  be  of  service  if  you 
Could  bring  him  up.  Women  need  that  sort  of 
thing;  it  refines,  you  know." 

"Would  she  have  him?"  I  asked. 

"Question,"  he  replied,  doubtfully.  "You 
might  suggest  it." 

Which  I  did,  introducing  somewhat  clumsily,  I 
fear,  The  Duke's  name. 

"The  Duke  says  he  is  to  make  me  good!"  she 
cried.  "I  won't  have  him,  I  hate  him  and  you 
too!"  And  for  that  day  she  disdained  all  lessons, 
and  when  The  Duke  next  appeared  she  greeted 
him  with  the  exclamation,  "I  won't  have  your 


126  The  Sky  Pilot 

old  Pilot,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  good,  and — and 
— you  think  he's  no  good  yourself,"  at  which  The 
Duke  opened  his  eyes. 

"How  do  you  know?     I  never  said  so!" 

"You  laughed  at  him  to  dad  one  day." 

"Did  I?"  said  The  Duke,  gravely.  "Then  I 
hasten  to  assure  you  that  I  have  changed  my 
mind.  He  is  a  good,  brave  man." 

"He  falls  off  his  horse,"  she  said,  with  con- 
tempt. 

"I  rather  think  he  sticks  on  now,"  replied  The 
Duke,  repressing  a  smile. 

"Besides,"  she  went  on,  "he's  just  a  kid;  Bill 
said  so." 

"Well,  he  might  be  more  ancient,"  acknowl- 
edged The  Duke,  "but  in  that  he  is  steadily 
improving. ' ' 

"Anyway,"  with  an  air  of  finality,  "he  is  not 
to  come  here." 

But  he  did  come,  and  under  her  own  escort,  one 
threatening  August  evening. 

"I  found  him  in  the  creek,"  she  announced, 
with  defiant  shamefacedness,  marching  in  The 
Pilot  half  drowned. 

"I  think  I  could  have  crossed,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "for  Louis  was  getting  on  his  feet  again. " 


Gwen's  First  Prayers  127 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  she  protested.  "You 
would  have  been  down  into  the  canyon  by  now, 
and  you  ought  to  be  thankful." 

"So  I  am,"  he  hastened  to  say,  "very!  But," 
he  added,  unwilling  to  give  up  his  contention,  "I 
have  crossed  the  Swan  before. ' ' 

"Not  when  it  was  in  flood." 

"Yes,  when  it  was  in  flood,  higher  than  now. " 

"Not  where  the  banks  are  rocky." 

"No-o!"  he  hesitated. 

"There,  then,  you  would  have  been  drowned 
but  for  my  lariat!"  she  cried,  triumphantly. 

To  this  he  doubtfully  assented. 

They  were  much  alike,  in  high  temper,  in 
enthusiasm,  in  vivid  imagination,  and  in  sensitive 
feeling.  When  the  Old  Timer  came  in  Gwen 
triumphantly  introduced  The  Pilot  as  having 
been  rescued  from  a  watery  grave  by  her  lariat, 
and  again  they  fought  out  the  possibilities  of 
drowning  and  of  escape  till  Gwen  almost  lost  her 
temper,  and  was  appeased  only  by  the  most  pro- 
fuse expressions  of  gratitude  on  the  part  of  The 
Pilot  for  her  timely  assistance.  The  Old  Timer 
was  perplexed.  He  was  afraid  to  offend  Gwen 
and  yet  unwilling  to  be  cordial  to  her  guest. 
The  Pilot  was  quick  to  feel  this,  and,  soon  after 


128  The  Sky  Pilot 

tea,  rose  to  go.  Gwen's  disappointment  showed 
in  her  face. 

"Ask  him  to  stay,  dad,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 
But  the  half-hearted  invitation  acted  like  a  spur, 
and  The  Pilot  was  determined  to  set  off. 

"There's  a  bad  storm  coming,"  she  said;  "and 
besides,"  she  added,  triumphantly  "you  can't 
cross  the  Swan. " 

This  settled  it,  and  the  most  earnest  prayers  of 
the  Old  Timer  could  not  have  held  him  back. 

We  all  went  down  to  see  him  cross,  Gwen  lead- 
ing her  pinto.  The  Swan  was  far  over  its  banks, 
and  in  the  middle  running  swift  and  strong. 
Louis  snorted,  refused  and  finally  plunged. 
Bravely  he  swam,  till  the  swift-running  water 
struck  him,  and  over  he  went  on  his  side,  throw- 
ing his  rider  into  the  water.  But  The  Pilot  kept 
his  head,  and,  holding  by  the  stirrups,  paddled 
along  by  Louis'  side.  When  they  were  half-way 
across  Louis  saw  that  he  had  no  chance  of  mak- 
ing the  landing;  so,  like  a  sensible  horse,  he 
turned  and  made  for  the  shore.  Here,  too,  the 
banks  were  high,  and  the  pony  began  to  grow 
discouraged. 

"Let  him  float  down  further!"  shrieked  Gwen, 
in  anxious  excitement;  and,  urging  her  pinto 


G wen's  First  Prayers  129 

down  the  bank,  she  coaxed  the  struggling  pony 
down  the  stream  till  opposite  a  shelf  of  rock 
level  with  the  high  water.  Then  she  threw  her 
lariat,  and,  catching  Louis  about  the  neck  and 
the  horn  of  his  saddle,  she  held  taut,  till,  half 
drowned,  he  scrambled  up  the  bank,  dragging 
The  Pilot  with  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  said,  almost  tearfully. 
"You  see,  you  couldn't  get  across." 

The  Pilot  staggered  to  his  feet,  took  a  step 
toward  her,  gasped  out: 

"I  can!"  and  pitched  headlong.  With  a  little 
cry  she  flew  to  him,  and  turned  him  over  on  his 
back.  In  a  few  moments  he  revived,  sat  up,  and 
looked  about  stupidly. 

"Where's  Louis?"  he  said,  with  his  face  toward 
the  swollen  stream. 

"Safe  enough,"  she  answered;  "but  you  must 
come  in,  the  rain  is  just  going  to  pour." 

But  The  Pilot  seemed  possessed. 

"No,  I'm  going  across,"  he  said,  rising. 

Gwen  was  greatly  distressed. 

"But  your  poor  horse,"  she  said,  cleverly 
changing  her  ground;  "he  is  quite  tired  out." 

The  Old  Timer  now  joined  earnestly  in  urging 
him  to  stay  till  the  storm  was  past.  So,  with  a 


130  The  Sky  Piloi 

final  look  at  the  stream,  The  Pilot  turned  toward 
the  house. 

Of  course  I  knew  what  would  happen.  Before 
the  evening  was  over  he  had  captured  the  house- 
hold. The  moment  he  appeared  with  dry  things 
on  he  ran  to  the  organ,  that  had  stood  for  ten 
years  closed  and  silent,  opened  it  and  began  to 
play.  As  he  played  and  sang  song  after  song, 
the  Old  Timer's  eyes  began  to  glisten  under  his 
shaggy  brows.  But  when  he  dropped  into  the 
exquisite  Irish  melody,  "Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night," 
the  old  man  drew  a  hard  breath  and  groaned  out 
to  me: 

"It  was  her  mother's  song,"  and  from  that  time 
The  Pilot  had  him  fast.  It  was  easy  to  pass  to 
the  old  hymn,  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee,"  and 
then  The  Pilot  said  simply,  "May  we  have  pray- 
ers?" He  looked  at  Gwen,  but  she  gazed  blankly 
at  him  and  then  at  her  father. 

"What  does  he  say,  dad?" 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  old  man's  face  grow 
slowly  red  under  the  deep  tan,  as  he  said : 

"You  may,  sir.  There's  been  none  here  for 
many  years,  and  the  worse  for  us."  He  rose 
slowly,  went  into  the  inner  room  and  returned 
with  a  Bible. 


IT  WAS  HER  MOTHER'S  SONG. 


G wen's  First  Prayers  131 

"It's  her  mother's,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  deep 
with  emotion.  "I  put  it  in  her  trunk  the  day  I 
laid  her  out  yonder  under  the  pines. ' '  The  Pilot, 
without  looking  at  him,  rose  and  reverently  took 
the  book  in  both  his  hands  and  said  gently: 

' '  It  was  a  sad  day  for  you,  but  for  her . ' ' 

He  paused.  "You  did  not  grudge  it  to  her?" 

"Not  now,  but  then,  yes!  I  wanted  her,  we 
needed  her. "  The  Old  Timer's  tears  were  flowing. 

The  Pilot  put  his  hand  caressingly  upon  the  old 
man's  shoulder  as  if  he  had  been  his  father,  and 
said  in  his  clear,  sweet  voice,  ' '  Some  day  you  will 
go  to  her. ' ' 

Upon  this  scene  poor  Gwen  gazed  with  eyes 
wide  open  with  amazement  and  a  kind  of  fear. 
She  had  never  seen  her  father  weep  since  the 
awful  day  that  she  could  never  forget,  when  he 
had  knelt  in  dumb  agony  beside  the  bed  on  which 
her  mother  lay  white  and  still ;  nor  would  he  heed 
her  till,  climbing  up,  'she  tried  to  make  her  mother 
waken  and  hear  her  cries.  Then  he  had  caught 
her  up  in  his  arms,  pressing  her  with  tears  and 
great  sobs  to  his  heart.  To-night  she  seemed  to 
feel  that  something  was  wrong.  She  went  and 
stood  by  her  father,  and,  stroking  his  gray  hair 
kindly,  she  said : 


132  The  Sky  Pilot 

"What  is  he  saying,  daddy?  Is  he  making  you 
cry?"  She  looked  at  The  Pilot  defiantly. 

"No,  no,  child,"  said  the  old  man,  hastily,  "sit 
here  and  listen." 

And  while  the  storm  raved  outside  we  three  sat 
listening  to  that  ancient  story  of  love  ineffable. 
And,  as  the  words  fell  like  sweet  music  upon  our 
ears,  the  old  man  sat  with  eyes  that  looked  far 
away,  while  the  child  listened  with  devouring 
eagerness. 

"Is  it  a  fairy  tale,  daddy?"  she  asked,  as  The 
Pilot  paused.  "It  isn't  true,  is  it?"  and  her  voice 
had  a  pleading  note  hard  for  the  old  man  to  bear. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  child,"  said  he,  brokenly. 
"God  forgive  me!" 

"Of  course  it's  true,"  said  The  Pilot,  quickly. 
"I'll  read  it  all  to  you  to-morrow.  It's  a  beauti- 
ful story!" 

"No,"  she  said,  imperiously,  "to-night.  Read 
it  now!  Go  on!"  she  said,  stamping  her  foot, 
"don't  you  hear  me?" 

The  Pilot  gazed  in  surprise  at  her,  and  then 
turning  to  the  old  man,  said: 

"Shall  I?" 

The  Old  Timer  simply  nodded  and  the  reading 
went  on.  Those  were  not  my  best  days,  and  the 


G wen's  First  Prayers  133 

faith  of  my  childhood  was  not  as  it  had  been;  but, 
as  The  Pilot  carried  us  through  those  matchless 
scenes  of  self-forgetting  love  and  service  the 
rapt  wonder  in  the  child's  face  as  she  listened, 
the  appeal  in  her  voice  as,  now  to  her  father, 
and  now  to  me,  she  cried:  "Is  that  true,  too? 
Is  it  all  true?"  made  it  impossible  for  me 
to  hesitate  in  my  answer.  And  I  was  glad 
to  find  it  easy  to  give  my  firm  adherence  to 
the  truth  of  all  that  tale  of  wonder.  And,  as 
more  and  more  it  grew  upon  The  Pilot  that  the 
story  he  was  reading,  so  old  to  him  and  to  all  he 
had  ever  met,  was  new  to  one  in  that  listening 
group,  his  face  began  to  glow  and  his  eyes  to 
blaze,  and  he  saw  and  showed  me  things  that 
night  I  had  never  seen  before,  nor  have  I  seen 
them  since.  The  great  figure  of  the  Gospels 
lived,  moved  before  our  eyes.  We  saw  Him  bend 
to  touch  the  blind,  we  heard  Him  speak  His 
marvellous  teaching,  we  felt  the  throbbing  excite- 
ment of  the  crowds  that  pressed  against  Him. 

Suddenly  The  Pilot  stopped,  turned  over  the 
leaves  and  began  again:  "And  He  led  them  out 
as  far  as  to  Bethany.  And  He  lifted  up  His  hands 
and  blessed  them.  And  it  came  to  pass  as  He 
blessed  them  He  was  parted  from  them  and  a 


134 

cloud  received  Him  out  of  their  sight."  There 
was  silence  for  some  minutes,  then  Gwen  said : 

"Where  did  He  go?" 

"Up  into  Heaven,"  answered  The  Pilot, 
simply. 

"That's  where  mother  is,"  she  said  to  her 
father,  who  nodded  in  reply. 

"Does  He  know?"  she  asked.  The  old  man 
looked  distressed. 

"Of  course  He  does,"  said  The  Pilot,  "and  she 
sees  Him  all  the  time. ' ' 

"Oh,  daddy!"  she  cried,  "isn't  that  good?" 

But  the  old  man  only  hid  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  groaned. 

"Yes,"  went  on  The  Pilot,  "and  He  sees 
us,  too,  and  hears  us  speak,  and  knows  our 
thoughts. ' ' 

Again  the  look  of  wonder  and  fear  came  into 
her  eyes,  but  she  said  no  word.  The  experiences 
of  the  evening  had  made  the  world  new  to  her. 
It  could  never  be  the  same  to  her  again.  It  gave 
me  a  queer  feeling  to  see  her,  when  we  three 
kneeled  to  pray,  stand  helplessly  looking  on,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  then  sink  beside  her  father, 
and,  winding  her  arms  about  his  neck,  cling  to 
him  as  the  words  of  prayer  were  spoken  into  the 


Gwen's  First  Prayers  135 

ear  of  Him  whom  no  man  can  see,  but  who  we 
believe  is  near  to  all  that  call  upon  Him. 

Those  were  Gwen's  first  "prayers,"  and  in 
them  Gwen's  part  was  small,  for  fear  and  won- 
der filled  her  heart ;  but  the  day  was  to  come,  and 
all  too  soon,  when  she  should  have  to  pour  out 
her  soul  with  strong  crying  and  tears.  That  day 
came  and  passed,  but  the  story  of  it  is  not  to  be 
told  here. 


Gwen's   Challenge 


137 


CHAPTER  XI 

OWEN'S  CHALLENGE 

Gwen  was  undoubtedly  wild  and,  as  The  Sky 
Pilot  said,  wilful  and  wicked.  Even  Bronco  Bill 
and  Hi  Kendal  would  say  so,  without,  of  course, 
abating  one  jot  of  their  admiration  for  her.  For 
fourteen  years  she  had  lived  chiefly  with  wild 
things.  The  cattle  on  the  range,  wild  as  deer, 
the  coyotes,  the  jack-rabbits  and  the  timber 
wolves  were  her  mates  and  her  instructors. 
From  these  she  learned  her  wild  ways.  The 
rolling  prairie  of  the  Foothill  country  was  her 
home.  She  loved  it  and  all  things  that  moved 
upon  it  with  passionate  love,  the  only  kind  she 
was  capable  of.  And  all  summer  long  she  spent 
her  days  riding  up  and  down  the  range  alone,  or 
with  her  father,  or  with  Joe,  or,  best  of  all,  with 
The  Duke,  her  hero  and  her  friend.  So  she 
grew  up  strong,  wholesome  and  self-reliant,  fear- 
ing nothing  alive  and  as  untamed  as  a  yearling 

range  colt. 

139 


140  The  Sky  Pilot 

She  was  not  beautiful.  The  winds  and  sun  had 
left  her  no  complexion  to  speak  of,  but  the  glory 
of  her  red  hair,  gold-red,  with  purple  sheen, 
nothing  could  tarnish.  Her  eyes,  too,  deep  blue 
with  rims  of  gray,  that  flashed  with  the  glint  of 
steel  or  shone  with  melting  light  as  of  the  stars, 
according  to  her  mood — those  Irish,  warm,  deep 
eyes  of  hers  were  worth  a  man's  looking  at. 

Of  course,  all  spoiled  her.  Ponka  and  her  son 
Joe  grovelled  in  abjectest  adoration,  while  her 
father  and  all  who  came  within  touch  of  her 
simply  did  her  will.  Even  The  Duke,  who  loved 
her  better  than  anything  else,  yielded  lazy, 
admiring  homage  to  his  Little  Princess,  and 
certainly,  when  she  stood  straight  up  with  her 
proud  little  gold-crowned  head  thrown  back, 
flashing  forth  wrath  or  issuing  imperious  com- 
mands, she  looked  a  princess,  all  of  her. 

It  was  a  great  day  and  a  good  day  for  her  when 
she  fished  The  Sky  Pilot  out  of  the  Swan  and 
brought  him  home,  and  the  night  of  Gwen's  first 
"prayers,"  when  she  heard  for  the  first  time  the 
story  of  the  Man  of  Nazareth,  was  the  best  of  all 
her  nights  up  to  that  time.  All  through  the 
winter,  under  The  Pilot's  guidance,  she,  with  her 
father,  the  Old  Timer,  listening  near,  went  over 


Gwen's  Challenge  141 

and  over  that  story  so  old  now  to  many,  but  ever 
becoming1  new,  till  a  whole  new  world  of  mysteri- 
ous Powers  and  Presences  lay  open  to  her  imagina- 
tion and  became  the  home  of  great  realities. 
She  was  rich  in  imagination  and,  when  The  Pilot 
read  Bunyan's  immortal  poem,  her  mother's  old 
"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  she  moved  and  lived  beside 
the  hero  of  that  tale,  backing  him  up  in  his  fights 
and  consumed  with  anxiety  over  his  many 
impending  perils,  till  she  had  him  safely  across 
the  river  and  delivered  into  the  charge  of  the 
shining  ones. 

The  Pilot  himself,  too,  was  a  new  and  whole- 
some experience.  He  was  the  first  thing  she  had 
yet  encountered  that  refused  submission,  and  the 
first  human  being  that  had  failed  to  fall  down  and 
worship.  There  was  something  in  him  that 
would  not  always  yield,  and,  indeed,  her  pride 
and  her  imperious  tempers  he  met  with  surprise 
and  sometimes  with  a  pity  that  verged  toward 
contempt.  With  this  she  was  not  well  pleased 
and  not  infrequently  she  broke  forth  upon  him, 
One  of  these  outbursts  is  stamped  upon  my  mind, 
not  only  because  of  its  unusual  violence,  but 
chiefly  because  of  the  events  which  followed. 
The  original  cause  of  her  rage  was  some  trifling 


142  The  Sky  Pilot 

misdeed  of  the  unfortunate  Joe ;  but  when  I  came 
upon  the  scene  it  was  The  Pilot  who  was  occupy- 
ing her  attention.  The  expression  of  surprise  and 
pity  on  his  face  appeared  to  stir  her  up. 

"How  dare  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  cried. 

"How  very  extraordinary  that  you  can't  keep 
hold  of  yourself  better!"  he  answered. 

"I  can!"  she  stamped,  "and  I  shall  do  as  I 
like!" 

*'It  is  a  great  pity,"  he  said,  with  provoking 
calm,  "and  besides,  it  is  weak  and  silly."  His 
words  were  unfortunate. 

"Weak!"  she  gasped,  when  her  breath  came 
back  to  her.  "Weak!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "very  weak  and  childish.'* 

Then  she  could  have  cheerfully  put  him  to  a 
slow  and  cruel  death.  When  she  had  recovered  a 
little  she  cried  vehemently: 

"I'm  not  weak!  I'm  strong!  I'm  stronger 
than  you  are!  I'm  strong  as — as— a  man!" 

I  do  not  suppose  she  meant  the  insinuation ;  at 
any  rate  The  Pilot  ignored  it  and  went  on. 

"You're  not  strong  enough  to  keep  your  temper 
down."  And  then,  as  she  had  no  reply  ready,  he 
went  on,  "And  really,  Gwen,  it  is  not  right. 
You  must  not  go  on  in  this  way." 


Gwen's  Challenge  143 

Again  his  words  were  unfortunate. 

"Must  not!"  she  cried,  adding  an  inch  to  her 
height.  "Who  says  so?" 

"God!"  was  the  simple,  short  answer. 

She  was  greatly  taken  back,  and  gave  a  quick 
glance  over  her  shoulder  as  if  to  see  Him,  who 
would  dare  to  say  must  not  to  her ;  but,  recover- 
ing, she  answered  sullenly: 

"I  don't  care!" 

"Don't  care  for  God?"  The  Pilot's  voice  was 
quiet  and  solemn,  but  something  in  his  manner 
angered  her,  and  she  blazed  forth  again. 

"I  don't  care  for  anyone,  and  I  shall  do  as  I 
like." 

The  Pilot  looked  at  her  sadly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said  slowly : 

"Some  day,  Gwen,  you  will  not  be  able  to  do 
as  you  like." 

I  remember  well  the  settled  defiance  in  her 
tone  and  manner  as  she  took  a  step  nearer  him 
and  answered  in  a  voice  trembling  with  passion: 

"Listen!  I  have  always  done  as  I  like,  and  I 
shall  do  as  I  like  till  I  die!'*  And  she  rushed 
forth  from  the  house  and  down  toward  the 
canyon,  her  refuge  from  all  disturbing  things, 
and  chiefly  from  herself. 


144  The  Sky  Pilot 

I  could  not  shake  off  the  impression  her  words 
made  upon  me.  ' '  Pretty  direct,  that, ' '  I  said  to 
The  Pilot,  as  we  rode  away.  "The  declaration 
may  be  philosophically  correct,  but  it  rings  un- 
commonly like  a  challenge  to  the  Almighty. 
Throws  down  the  gauntlet,  so  to  speak." 

But  The  Pilot  only  said,  "Don't!  How  can  you?" 

Within  a  week  her  challenge  was  accepted,  and 
how  fiercely  and  how  gallantly  did  she  struggle 
to  make  it  good! 

It  was  The  Duke  that  brought  me  the  news, 
and  as  he  told  me  the  story  his  gay,  careless  self- 
command  for  once  was  gone.  For  in  the  gloom 
of  the  canyon  where  he  overtook  me  I  could  see 
his  face  gleaming  out  ghastly  white,  and  even  his 
iron  nerve  could  not  keep  the  tremor  from  his 
voice. 

"I've  just  sent  up  the  doctor,"  was  his  answer 
to  my  greeting.  "I  looked  for  you  last  night, 
couldn't  find  you,  and  so  rode  off  to  the  Fort." 

"What's  up?"  I  said,  with  fear  in  my  heart,  for 
no  light  thing  moved  The  Duke. 

"Haven't  you  heard?  It's  Gwen,"  he  said,  and 
the  next  minute  or  two  he  gave  to  Jingo,  who 
was  indulging  in  a  series  of  unexpected  plunges. 
When  Jingo  was  brought  down,  The  Duke  was 


Gwen's  Challenge  145 

master  of  himself  and  told  his  tale  with  careful 
self-control. 

Gwen,    on  her  father's    buckskin  bronco,  had 
gone  with  The  Duke  to  the  big  plain  above  the 
cut-bank  where  Joe  was  herding  the  cattle.     The 
day  was  hot  and  a  storm  was  in  the  air.     They 
found  Joe  riding  up  and  down,  singing  to  keep 
the  cattle  quiet,  but  having  a  hard  time  to  hold 
the  bunch  from  breaking.     While  The  Duke  was 
riding  around  the  far  side  of  the  bunch,  a  cry 
from  Gwen  arrested  his  attention.     Joe  was  in 
trouble.      His  horse,  a  half-broken  cayuse,  had 
stumbled  into  a    badger-hole    and    had    bolted, 
leaving  Joe  to  the  mercy  of  the  cattle.     At  once 
they  began  to  sniff  suspiciously  at  this  phenom- 
enon, a  man  on  foot,  and  to  follow  cautiously  on 
his  track.     Joe  kept  his  head  and  walked  slowly 
out,  till  all  at  once  a  young  cow  began  to  bawl 
and  to  paw  the  ground.     In  another  minute  one, 
and  then  another  of  the  cattle  began  to  toss  their 
heads  and  bunch  and  bellow  till  the  whole  herd  of 
two  hundred  were  after  Joe.     Then  Joe  lost  his 
head  and    ran.      Immediately  the    whole    herd 
broke  into  a  thundering  gallop  with  heads  and 
tails  aloft  and  horns  rattling  like  the  loading  of  a 
regiment  of  rifles. 


146  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Two  more  minutes,"  said  The  Duke,  "would 
have  done  for  Joe,  for  I  could  never  have  reached 
him ;  but,  in  spite  of  my  most  frantic  warnings 
and  signalings,  right  into  the  face  of  that  mad, 
bellowing,  thundering  mass  of  steers  rode  that 
little  girl.  Nerve!  I  have  some  myself,  but  I 
couldn't  have  done  it.  She  swung  her  horse 
round  Joe  and  sailed  out  with  him,  with  the  herd 
bellowing  at  the  tail  of  her  bronco.  I've  seen 
some  cavalry  things  in  my  day,  but  for  sheer  cool 
bravery  nothing  touches  that." 

"How  did  it  end?  Did  they  run  them  down?" 
I  asked,  with  terror  at  such  a  result. 

"No,  they  crowded  her  toward  the  cut-bank, 
and  she  was  edging  them  off  and  was  almost 
past,  when  they  came  to  a  place  where  the  bank 
bit  in,  and  her  iron-mouthed  brute  wouldn't 
swerve,  but  went  pounding  on,  broke  through, 
plunged ;  she  couldn't  spring  free  because  of  Joe, 
and  pitched  headlong  over  the  bank,  while  the 
cattle  went  thundering  past.  I  flung  myself  off 
Jingo  and  slid  down  somehow  into  the  sand, 
thirty  feet  below.  Here  was  Joe  safe  enough, 
but  the  bronco  lay  with  a  broken  leg,  and  half 
under  him  was  Gwen.  She  hardly  knew  she  was 
hurt,  but  waved  her  hand  to  me  and  cried  out, 


G wen's  Challenge  147 

'Wasn't  that  a  race?  I  couldn't  swing  this  hard- 
headed  brute.  Get  me  out.'  But  even  as  she 
spoke  the  light  faded  from  her  eyes,  she  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  me,  saying  faintly,  'Oh,  Duke,' 
and  lay  back  white  and  still.  We  put  a  bullet 
into  the  buckskin's  head,  and  carried  her  home 
in  our  jackets,  and  there  she  lies  without  a  sound 
from  her  poor,  white  lips." 

The  Duke  was  badly  cut  up.  I  had  never  seen 
him  show  any  sign  of  grief  before,  but  as  he 
finished  the  story  he  stood  ghastly  and  shaking. 
He  read  my  surprise  in  my  face  and  said : 

"Look  here,  old  chap,  don't  think  me  quite  a 
fool.  You  can't  know  what  that  little  girl  has 
done  for  me  these  years.  Her  trust  in  me — it  is 
extraordinary  how  utterly  she  trusts  me — some- 
how held  me  up  to  my  best  and  back  from  perdi- 
tion. It  is  the  one  bright  spot  in  my  life  in  this 
blessed  country.  Everyone  else  thinks  me  a 
pleasant  or  unpleasant  kind  of  fiend. " 

I  protested  rather  faintly. 

"Oh,  don't  worry  your  conscience,"  he 
answered,  with  a  slight  return  of  his  old  smile, 
"a  fuller  knowledge  would  only  justify  the  opin- 
ion." Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added:  "But  if 
Gwen  goes,  I  must  pull  out,  I  could  not  stand  it." 


148  The  Sky  Pilot 

As  we  rode  up,  the  doctor  came  out 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  asked  The  Duke. 

"Can't  say  yet,"  replied  the  old  doctor,  gruff 
with  long  army  practice,  "bad  enough.  Good 
night. ' ' 

But  The  Duke's  hand  fell  upon  his  shoulder 
with  a  grip  that  must  have  got  to  the  bone,  and 
in  a  husky  voice  he  asked : 

"Will  she  live?" 

The  doctor  squirmed,  but  could  not  shake  off 
that  crushing  grip. 

"Here,  you  young  tiger,  let  go!  What  do  you 
think  I  am  made  of?"  he  cried,  angrily.  "I 
didn't  suppose  I  was  coming  to  a  bear's  den,  or  I 
should  have  brought  a  gun." 

It  was  only  by  the  most  complete  apology  that 
The  Duke  could  mollify  the  old  doctor  sufficiently 
to  get  his  opinion. 

"No,  she  will  not  die!  Great  bit  of  stuff! 
Better  she  should  die,  perhaps!  But  can't  say  yet 
for  two  weeks.  Now  remember,"  he  added 
sharply,  looking  into  The  Duke's  woe-stricken 
face,  "her  spirits  must  be  kept  up.  I  have  lied 
most  fully  and  cheerfully  to  them  inside;  you 
must  do  the  same,"  and  the  doctor  strode  away, 
calling  out : 


Gwen's  Challenge  149 

"Joe!  Here,  Joe!  Where  is  he  gone?  Joe,  I 
say!  Extraordinary  selection  Providence  makes 
at  times;  we  could  have  spared  that  lazy  half- 
breed  with  pleasure!  Joe!  Oh,  here  you  are! 

Where  in  thunder "  But  here  the  doctor 

stopped  abruptly.  The  agony  in  the  dark  face 
before  him  was  too  much  even  for  the  bluff 
doctor.  Straight  and  stiff  Joe  stood  by  the 
horse's  head  till  the  doctor  had  mounted,  then 
with  a  great  effort  he  said : 

"Little  miss,  she  go  dead?" 

"Dead!"  called  out  the  doctor,  glancing  at  the 
open  window.  "Why,  bless  your  old  copper  car- 
cass, no !  Gwen  will  show  you  yet  how  to  rope  a 
steer." 

Joe  took  a  step  nearer,  and  lowering  his  tone 
said: 

"You speak  me  true?  Me  man,  Me  no  papoose." 
The  piercing  black  eyes  searched  the  doctor's 
face.  The  doctor  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  an  air  of  great  candor,  said  cheerily : 

"That's  all  right,  Joe.  Miss  Gwen  will  cut 
circles  round  your  old  cayuse  yet.  But  remem- 
ber," and  the  doctor  was  very  impressive,  "you 
must  make  her  laugh  every  day." 

Joe  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and  stood 


150  The  Sky  Pilot 

like  a  statue  till  the  doctor  rode  away ;  then  turn- 
ing to  us  he  grunted  out: 

"Him  good  man,  eh?" 

"Good  man,"  answered  The  Duke,  adding, 
"but  remember,  Joe,  what  he  told  you  to  do. 
Must  make  her  laugh  every  day." 

Poor  Joe!  Humor  was  not  his  forte,  and  his 
attempt  in  this  direction  in  the  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed would  have  been  humorous  were  they  not 
so  pathetic.  How  I  did  my  part  I  cannot  tell. 
Those  weeks  are  to  me  now  like  the  memory  of 
an  ugly  nightmare.  The  ghostly  old  man  moving 
out  and  in  of  his  little  daughter's  room  in  useless, 
dumb  agony;  Ponka's  woe-stricken  Indian  face; 
Joe's  extraordinary  and  unusual  but  loyal 
attempts  at  fun-making  grotesquely  sad,  and 
The  Duke's  unvarying  and  invincible  cheeriness; 
these  furnish  light  and  shade  for  the  picture  my 
memory  brings  me  of  Gwen  in  those  days. 

For  the  first  two  weeks  she  was  simply  heroic. 
She  bore  her  pain  without  a  groan,  submitted  to 
the  imprisonment  which  was  harder  than  pain 
with  angelic  patience.  Joe,  The  Duke  and  I 
carried  out  our  instructions  with  careful  exactness 
to  the  letter.  She  never  doubted,  and  we  never  let 
her  doubt  but  that  in  a  few  weeks  she  would  be  on 


Owen's  Challenge  151 

the  pinto's  back  again  and  after  the  cattle.  She 
made  us  pass  our  word  for  this  till  it  seemed  as  if 
she  must  have  ^ead  the  falsehoods  on  our  brows. 

"To  lie  cheerfully  with  her  eyes  upon  one's  face 
calls  for  more  than  I  possess,"  said  The  Duke  one 
day.  "The  doctor  should  supply  us  tonics.  It  is 
an  arduous  task." 

And  she  believed  us  absolutely,  and  made  plans 
for  the  fall  "round-up,"  and  for  hunts  and  rides 
till  one's  heart  grew  sick.  As  to  the  ethical  prob- 
lem involved,  I  decline  to  express  an  opinion, 
but  we  had  no  need  to  wait  for  our  punishment. 
Her  trust  in  us,  her  eager  and  confident  expecta- 
tion of  the  return  of  her  happy,  free,  outdoor  life ; 
these  brought  to  us,  who  knew  how  vain  they 
were,  their  own  adequate  punishment  for  every 
false  assurance  we  gave.  And  how  bright  and 
brave  she  was  those  first  days!  How  resolute 
to  get  back  to  the  world  of  air  and  light  outside ! 

But  she  had  need  of  all  her  brightness  and 
courage  and  resolution  before  she  was  done  with 
her  long  fight. 


Gwen's   Canyon 


153 


CHAPTER   XII 

OWEN'S  CANYON 

Owen's  hope  and  bright  courage,  in  spite  of  all 
her  pain,  were  wonderful  to  witness.  But  all  this 
cheery  hope  and  courage  and  patience  snuffed  out 
as  a  candle,  leaving  noisome  darkness  to  settle 
down  in  that  sick-room  from  the  day  of  the  doc- 
tor's consultation. 

The  verdict  was  clear  and  final.  The  old 
doctor,  who  loved  Gwen  as  his  own,  was  inclined 
to  hope  against  hope,  but  Fawcett,  the  clever 
young  doctor  from  the  distant  town,  was  positive 
in  his  opinion.  The  scene  is  clear  to  me  now, 
after  many  years.  We  three  stood  in  the  outer 
room ;  The  Duke  and  her  father  were  with  Gwen. 
So  earnest  was  the  discussion  that  none  of  us 
heard  the  door  open  just  as  young  Fawcett  was 
saying  in  incisive  tones : 

"No!  I  can  see  no  hope.  The  child  can  never 
walk  again." 

There  was  a  cry  behind  us. 


156  The  Sky  Pilot 

"What!  Never  walk  again!  It's  a  lie!" 
There  stood  the  Old  Timer,  white,  fierce, 
shaking. 

"Hush!"  said  the  old  doctor,  pointing  at  the 
open  door.  He  was  too  late.  Even  as  he  spoke, 
there  came  from  the  inner  room  a  wild,  unearthly 
cry  as  of  some  dying  thing  and,  as  we  stood  gaz- 
ing at  one  another  with  awe-stricken  faces,  we 
heard  Gwen's  voice  as  in  quick,  sharp  pain. 

"Daddy!  daddy!  come!  What  do  they  say? 
Tell  me,  daddy.  It  is  not  true !  It  is  not  true ! 
Look  at  me,  daddy!" 

She  pulled  up  her  father's  haggard  face  from 
the  bed. 

"Oh,  daddy,  daddy,  you  know  it's  true.  Never 
walk  again!" 

She  turned  with  a  pitiful  cry  to  The  Duke, 
who  stood  white  and  stiff  with  arms  drawn 
tight  across  his  breast  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed. 

"Oh,  Duke,  did  you  hear  them?  You  told  me 
to  be  brave,  and  I  tried  not  to  cry  when  they 
hurt  me.  But  I  can't  be  brave!  Can  I,  Duke? 
Oh,  Duke!  Never  to  ride  again!" 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him.  But  The 
Duke,  leaning  over  her  and  holding  her  hands 


G wen's  Canyon  157 

fast  in  his,  could  only  say  brokenly  over  and  over: 
"Don't,  Gwen!  Don't,  Gwen  dear!" 

But  the  pitiful,  pleading  voice  went  on. 

"Oh,  Duke!  Must  I  always  lie  here?  Must  I? 
Why  must  I?" 

"God  knows,"  answered  The  Duke  bitterly, 
under  his  breath,  "I  don't!" 

She  caught  at  the  word. 

"Does  He?"  she  cried,  eagerly.  Then  she 
paused  suddenly,  turned  to  me  and  said:  "Do  you 
remember  he  said  some  day  I  could  not  do  as  I 
liked?" 

I  was  puzzled. 

"The  Pilot,"  she  cried,  impatiently,  "don't  you 
remember?  And  I  said  I  should  do  as  I  liked  till  I 
died." 

I  nodded  my  head  and  said:  "But  you  know 
you  didn't  mean  it." 

"But  I  did,  and  I  do,"  she  cried,  with  passion- 
ate vehemence,  "and  I  will  do  as  I  like!  I  will 
not  lie  here!  I  will  ride!  I  will!  I  will!  I  will!" 
and  she  struggled  up,  clenched  her  fists,  and 
sank  back  faint  and  weak.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
sight,  but  gruesome.  Her  rage  against  that 
Unseen  Omnipotence  was  so  defiant  and  so 
heloless. 


158  The  Sky  Pilot 

Those  were  dreadful  weeks  to  Gwen  and  to  all 
about  her.  The  constant  pain  could  not  break 
her  proud  spirit ;  she  shed  no  tears ;  but  she  fretted 
and  chafed  and  grew  more  imperiously  exacting 
every  day.  Ponka  and  Joe  she  drove  like  a  slave 
master,  and  even  her  father,  when  he  could  not 
understand  her  wishes,  she  impatiently  banished 
from  her  room.  Only  The  Duke  could  please  or 
bring  her  any  cheer,  and  even  The  Duke  began  to 
feel  that  the  day  was  not  far  off  when  he,  too, 
would  fail,  and  the  thought  made  him  despair. 
Her  pain  was  hard  to  bear,  but  harder  than  the 
pain  was  her  longing  for  the  open  air  and  the  free, 
flower-strewn,  breeze-swept  prairie.  But  most 
pitiful  of  all  were  the  days  when,  in  her  utter 
weariness  and  uncontrollable  unrest,  she  would 
pray  to  be  taken  down  into  the  canyon. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  cool  and  shady,"  she  would  plead, 
"and  the  flowers  up  in  the  rocks  and  the  vines 
and  things  are  all  so  lovely.  I  am  always  better 
there.  I  know  I  should  be  better,"  till  The  Duke 
would  be  distracted  and  would  come  to  me  and 
wonder  what  the  end  would  be. 

One  day,  when  the  strain  had  been  more  ter- 
rible than  usual,  The  Duke  rode  down  to  me  and 
said: 


Gwen's  Canyon  159 

"Look  here,  this  thing  can't  go  on.  Where  is 
The  Pilot  gone?  Why  doesn't  he  stay  where  he 
belongs?  I  wish  to  Heaven  he  would  get  through 
with  his  absurd  rambling. ' ' 

"He's  gone  where  he  was  sent,"  I  replied 
shortly.  "You  don't  set  much  store  by  him  when 
he  does  come  round  He  is  gone  on  an  exploring 
trip  through  the  Dog  Lake  country.  He'll  be 
back  by  the  end  of  next  week." 

"I  say,  bring  him  up,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  said 
The  Duke,  "he  may  be  of  some  use,  and  anyway 
it  will  be  a  new  face  for  her,  poor  child."  Then 
he  added,  rather  penitently:  "I  fear  this  thing  is 
getting  on  to  my  nerves.  She  almost  drove  me 
out  to-day.  Don't  lay  it  up  against  me.  old 
chap." 

It  was  anew  thing  to  hear  The  Duke  confess  his 
need  of  any  man,  much  less  penitence  for  a  fault. 
I  felt  my  eyes  growing  dim,  but  I  said,  roughly  : 

"You  be  hanged!  I'll  bring  The  Pilot  up  when 
he  comes." 

It  was  wonderful  how  we  had  all  come  to  con- 

• 

fide  in  The  Pilot  during  his  year  of  missionary 
work  among  us.  Somehow  the  cowboy's  name  of 
"Sky  Pilot"  seemed  to  express  better  than  any- 
thing else  the  place  he  held  with  us.  Certain  it 


160  The  Sky  Pilot 

is,  that  when,  in  their  dark  hours,  any  of  the  fel- 
lows felt  in  need  of  help  to  strike  the  "upward 
trail, ' '  they  went  to  The  Pilot ;  and  so  the  name 
first  given  in  chaff  came  to  be  the  name  that 
expressed  most  truly  the  deep  and  tender  feeling 
these  rough,  big-hearted  men  cherished  for  him. 

When  The  Pilot  oame  home  I  carefully  pre- 
pared him  for  his  trial,  telling  all  that  Gwen  had 
suffered  and  striving  to  make  him  feel  how 
desperate  was  her  case  when  even  The  Duke  had 
to  confess  himself  beaten.  He  did  not  seem 
sufficiently  impressed.  Then  I  pictured  for  him 
all  her  fierce  wilfulness  and  her  fretful  humors, 
her  impatience  with  those  who  loved  her  and  were 
wearing  out  their  souls  and  bodies  for  her.  "In 
short,"  I  concluded,  "she  doesn't  care  a  rush  for 
anything  in  heaven  or  earth,  and  will  yield  to 
neither  man  nor  God. ' ' 

The  Pilot's  eyes  had  been  kindling  as  I  talked, 
but  he  only  answered,  quietly : 

"What  could  you  expect?" 

"Well,  I  do  think  she  might  show  some  signs 
of  gratitude  and  some  gentleness  towards  those 
ready  to  die  for  her." 

"Oh,  you  do!"  said  he,  with  high  scorn.  "You 
all  combine  to  ruin  her  temper  and  disposition 


G wen's  Canyon  161 

with  foolish  flattery  and  weak  yielding  to  her 
whims,  right  or  wrong ;  you  smile  at  her  imperious 
pride  and  encourage  her  wilfulness,  and  then  not 
only  wonder  at  the  results,  but  blame  her,  poor 
child,  for  all.  Oh,  you  are  a  fine  lot,  The  Duke 
and  all  of  you!" 

He  had  a  most  exasperating  ability  for  putting 
one  in  the  wrong,  and  I  could  only  think  of  the 
proper  and  sufficient  reply  long  after  the  oppor- 
tunity for  making  it  had  passed.  I  wondered 
what  The  Duke  would  say  to  this  doctrine.  All 
the  following  day,  which  was  Sunday,  I  could  see 
that  Gwen  was  on  The  Pilot's  mind.  He  was 
struggling  with  the  problem  of  pain. 

Monday  morning  found  us  on  the  way  to  the 
Old  Timer's  ranch.  And  what  a  morning  it 
was!  How  beautiful  our  world  seemed! 
About  us  rolled  the  round-topped,  velvet  hills, 
brown  and  yellow  or  faintly  green,  spreading  out 
behind  us  to  the  broad  prairie,  and  before,  clam- 
bering up  and  up  to  meet  the  purple  bases  of  the 
great  mountains  that  lay  their  mighty  length 
along  the  horizon  and  thrust  up  white,  sunlit 
peaks  into  the  blue  sky.  On  the  hillsides  and 
down  in  the  sheltering  hollows  we  could  see  the 
bunches  of  cattle  and  horses  feeding  upon  the 


1 62  The  Sky  Pilot 

rich  grasses.  High  above,  the  sky,  cloudless  and 
blue,  arched  its  great  kindly  roof  from  prairie  to 
mountain  peaks,  and  over  all,  above,  below,  upon 
prairie,  hillsides  and  mountains,  the  sun  poured 
his  floods  of  radiant  yellow  light. 

As  we  followed  the  trail  that  wound  up  and  into 
the  heart  of  these  rounded  hills  and  ever  nearer  to 
the  purple  mountains,  the  morning  breeze  swept 
down  to  meet  us,  bearing  a  thousand  scents,  and 
filling  us  with  its  own  fresh  life.  One  can  know 
the  quickening  joyousness  of  these  Foothill 
breezes  only  after  he  has  drunk  with  wide-open 
mouth,  deep  and  full  of  them. 

Through  all  this  mingling  beauty  of  sunlit  hills 
and  shady  hollows  and  purple,  snow-peaked 
mountains,  we  rode  with  hardly  a  word,  every 
minute  adding  to  our  heart-filling  delight,  but 
ever  with  the  thought  of  the  little  room  where, 
shut  in  from  all  this  outside  glory,  lay  Gwen, 
heart-sore  with  fretting  and  longing.  This  must 
have  been  in  The  Pilot's  mind,  for  he  suddenly 
held  up  his  horse  and  burst  out : 

"Poor  Gwen,  how  she  loves  all  this! — it  is  hei 
very  life.  How  can  she  help  fretting  the  heart 
out  of  her?  To  see  this  no  more!"  He  flung 
himself  off  his  bronco  and  said,  as  if  thinking 


Gwen's  Canyon  163 

aloud:  "It  is  too  awful!  Oh,  it  is  cruel!  I 
don't  wonder  at  her!  God  help  me,  what  can  I 
say  to  her?" 

He  threw  himself  down  upon  the  grass  and 
turned  over  on  his  face.  After  a  few  minutes  he 
appealed  to  me,  and  his  face  was  sorely  troubled. 

"How  can  one  go  to  her?  It  seems  to  me 
sheerest  mockery  to  speak  of  patience  and  sub- 
mission to  a  wild  young  thing  from  whom  all  this 
is  suddenly  snatched  forever — and  this  was  very 
life  to  her,  too,  remember." 

Then  he  sprang  up  and  we  rode  hard  for  an 
hour,  till  we  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  canyon. 
Here  the  trail  grew  difficult  and  we  came  to  a 
walk.  As  we  went  down  into  the  cool  depths  the 
spirit  of  the  canyon  came  to  meet  us  and  took 
The  Pilot  in  its  grip.  He  rode  in  front,  feasting 
his  eyes  on  all  the  wonders  in  that  storehouse  of 
beauty.  Trees  of  many  kinds  deepened  the 
shadows  of  the  canyon.  Over  us  waved  'the  big 
elms  that  grew  up  here  and  there  out  of  the  bot- 
tom, and  around  their  feet  clustered  low  cedars 
and  hemlocks  and  balsams,  while  the  sturdy, 
rugged  oaks  and  delicate,  trembling  poplars 
clung  to  the  rocky  sides  and  clambered  up  and 
out  to  the  canyon's  sunny  lips.  Back  of  all,  the 


1 64  The  Sky  Pilot 

great  black  rocks,  decked  with  mossy  bits  and 
clinging  things,  glistened  cool  and  moist  between 
the  parting  trees.  From  many  an  oozy  nook  the 
dainty  clematis  and  columbine  shook  out  their 
bells,  and,  lower  down,  from  beds  of  many-colored 
moss  the  late  wind-flower  and  maiden-hair  and 
tiny  violet  lifted  np  brave,  sweet  faces.  And 
throngh  the  canyon  the  Little  Swan  sang  its  song 
to  rocks  and  flowers  and  overhanging  trees,  a 
song  of  many  tones,  deep-booming  where  it  took 
its  first  sheer  plunge,  gay-chattering  where  it 
threw  itself  down  the  ragged  rocks,  and  soft-mur- 
muring where  it  lingered  about  the  roots  of  the 
loving,  listening  elms.  A  cool,  sweet,  soothing 
place  it  was,  with  all  its  shades  and  sounds  and 
silences,  and,  lest  it  should  be  sad  to  any,  the 
sharp,  quick  sunbeams  danced  and  laughed  down 
through  all  its  leaves  upon  mosses}  flowers  and 
rocks.  No  wonder  that  The  Pilot,  drawing  a 
deep  breath  as  he  touched  the  prairie  sod  again, 
said: 

"That  does  me  good.  It  is  better  at  times 
even  than  the  sunny  hills.  This  was  Gwen's  best 
spot." 

I  saw  that  the  canyon  had  done  its  work  with 
him.  His  face  was  strong  and  calm  as  the  hills 


Gwen's  Canyon  165 

on  a  summer  morning,  and  with  this  face  he 
looked  in  upon  Gwen.  It  was  one  of  her  bad 
days  and  one  of  her  bad  moods,  but  like  a  sum- 
mer breeze  he  burst  into  the  little  room. 

"Oh,  Gwen!"  he  cried,  without  a  word  of 
greeting,  much  less  of  commiseration,  "we  have 
had  such  a  ride!"  And  he  spread  out  the  sunlit, 
round-topped  hills  before  her,  till  I  could  feel 
their  very  breezes  in  my  face.  This  The  Duke 
had  never  dared  to  do,  fearing  to  grieve  her  with 
pictures  of  what  she  should  look  upon  no  more. 
But,  as  The  Pilot  talked,  before  she  knew,  Gwen 
was  out  again  upon  her  beloved  hills,  breathing 
their  fresh,  sunny  air,  filling  her  heart  with  their 
multitudinous  delights,  till  her  eyes  grew  bright 
and  the  lines  of  fretting  smoothed  out  of  her 
face  and  she  forgot  her  pain.  Then,  before  she 
could  remember,  he  had  her  down  into  the 
canyon,  feasting  her  heart  with  its  airs  and  sights 
and  sounds.  The  black,  glistening  rocks,  tricked 
out  with  moss  and  trailing  vines,  the  great  elms 
and  low  green  cedars,  the  oaks  and  shivering 
poplars,  the  clematis  and  columbine  hanging  from 
the  rocky  nooks,  and  the  violets  and  maiden-hair 
deep  bedded  in  their  mosses.  All  this  and  far 
more  he  showed  her  with  a  touch  so  light  as  not 


1 66  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  shake  the  morning  dew  from  bell  or  leaf  or 
frond,  and  with  a  voice  so  soft  and  full  of  music 
as  to  fill  our  hearts  with  the  canyon's  mingling 
sounds,  and,  as  I  looked  upon  her  face,  I  said  to 
myself:  "Dear  old  Pilot!  for  this  I  shall  always 
love  you  well."  As  poor  Gwen  listened,  the 
rapture  of  it  drew  the  big  tears  down  her  cheeks — 
alas !  no  longer  brown,  but  white,  and  for  that  day 
at  least  the  dull,  dead  weariness  was  lifted  from 
her  heart. 


The  Canyon  Flowers 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE   CANYON    FLOWERS 

The  Pilot's  first  visit  to  Gwen  had  been  a 
triumph.  But  none  knew  better  than  he  that  the 
fight  was  still  to  come,  for  deep  in  Gwen's  heart 
were  thoughts  whose  pain  made  her  forget  all 
other. 

"Was  it  God  let  me  fall?"  she  asked  abruptly 
one  day,  and  The  Pilot  knew  the  fight  was  on; 
but  he  only  answered,  looking  fearlessly  into  her 
eyes: 

"Yes,  Gwen  dear." 

"Why  did  He  let  me  fall?"  and  her  voice  was 
very  deliberate. 

"I  don't  know,  Gwen  dear,"  said  The  Pilot 
steadily.  "He  knows." 

"And  does  He  know  I  shall  never  ride  again? 
Does  He  know  how  long  the  days  are,  and  the 
nights  when  I  can't  sleep?  Does  He  know?" 

"Yes,  Gwen  dear,"  said  The  Pilot,  and  the 
tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes,  though  his  voice 

was  still  steady  enough. 

169 


1 70  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Are  you  sure  He    knows?"     The  voice  was 

painfully  intense. 

"Listen  to  me,  Gwen,"  began  The  Pilot,  in 
great  distress,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  He  knows?  Answer  me!" 
she  cried,  with  her  old  imperiousness. 

"Yes,  Gwen,  He  knows  all  about  you." 

"Then  what  do  you  think  of  Him,  just  because 
He's  big  and  strong,  treating  a  little  girl  that 
way?"  Then  she  added,  viciously:  "I  hate  Him! 
I  don't  care!  I  hate  Him!" 

But  The  Pilot  did  not  wince.  I  wondered  how 
he  would  solve  that  problem  that  was  puzzling, 
not  only  Gwen,  but  her  father  and  The  Duke, 
and  all  of  us — the  why  of  human  pain. 

"Gwen,"  said  The  Pilot,  as  if  changing  the 
subject,  "did  it  hurt  to  put  on  the  plaster 
jacket?" 

"You  just  bet!"  said  Gwen,  lapsing  in  her 
English,  as  The  Duke  was  not  present ;  "it  was 
worse  than  anything — awful!  They  had  to 
straighten  me  out,  you  know,"  and  she  shud- 
dered at  the  memory  of  that  pain. 

"What  a  pity  your  father  or  The  Duke  was 
not  here!"  said  The  Pilot,  earnestly. 

"Why,  they  were  both  here!" 


The  Canyon  Flowers  171 

"What  a  cruel  shame!"  burst  out  The  Pilot. 
"Don't  they  care  for  you  any  more?" 

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  Gwen,  indignantly. 

"Why  didn't  they  stop  the  doctors  from  hurting 
you  so  cruelly?" 

"Why,  they  let  the  doctors.  It  is  going  to  help 
me  to  sit  up  and  perhaps  to  walk  about  a  little," 
answered  Gwen,  with  blue-gray  eyes  open  wide. 

"Oh,"  said  The  Pilot,  "it  was  very  mean  to 
stand  by  and  see  you  hurt  like  that." 

"Why,  you  silly,"  replied  Gwen,  impatiently, 
"they  want  my  back  to  get  straight  and  strong." 

"Oh,  then  they  didn't  do  it  just  for  fun  or  for 
nothing?"  said  The  Pilot,  innocently. 

Gwen  gazed  at  him  in  amazed  and  speechless 
wrath,  and  he  went  on : 

"I  mean  they  love  you  though  they  let  you  be 
hurt;  or  rather  they  let  the  doctors  hurt  you 
because  they  loved  you  and  wanted  to  make  you 
better." 

Gwen  kept  her  eyes  fixed  with  curious  earnest- 
ness upon  his  face  till  the  light  began  to  dawn. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  began  slowly,  "that 
though  God  let  me  fall,  He  loves  me?" 

The  Pilot  nodded ;  he  could  not  trust  his  voice. 

"I  wonder  if  that  can  be  true,"  she  said,  as  if 


172  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  herself ;  and  soon  we  said  good-by  and  came 
away — The  Pilot,  limp  and  voiceless,  but  I 
triumphant,  for  I  began  to  see  a  little  light  for 
Gwen. 

But  the  fight  was  by  no  means  over;  indeed,  it 
was  hardly  well  begun.  For  when  the  autumn 
came,  with  its  misty,  purple  days,  most  glorious 
of  all  days  in  the  cattle  country,  the  old  restless- 
ness came  back  and  the  fierce  refusal  of  her  lot. 
Then  came  the  day  of  the  round-up.  Why  should 
she  have  to  stay  while  all  went  after  the  cattle? 
The  Duke  would  have  remained,  but  she  impa- 
tiently sent  him  away.  She  was  weary  and 
heart-sick,  and,  worst  of  all,  she  began  to  feel 
that  most  terrible  of  burdens,  the  burden  of  her 
life  to  others.  I  was  much  relieved  when  The 
Pilot  came  in  fresh  and  bright,  waving  a  bunch 
of  wild-flowers  in  his  hand. 

"I  thought  they  were  all  gone,"  he  cried. 
"Where  do  you  think  I  found  them?  Right  down 
by  the  big  elm  root, ' '  and,  though  he  saw  by  the 
settled  gloom  of  her  face  that  the  storm  was 
coming,  he  went  bravely  on  picturing  the  canyon 
in  all  the  splendor  of  its  autumn  dress.  But  the 
spell  would  not  work.  Her  heart  was  out  on  the 
sloping  hills,  where  the  cattle  were  bunching  and 


The  Canyon  Flowers  173 

crowding  with  tossing  heads  and  rattling  horns, 
and  it  was  in  a  voice  very  bitter  and  impatient 
that  she  cried : 

"Oh,  I  am  sick  of  all  this!  I  want  to  ride!  I 
want  to  see  the  cattle  and  the  men  and — and — 
and  all  the  things  outside."  The  Pilot  was  cow- 
boy enough  to  know  the  longing  that  tugged  at 
her  heart  for  one  wild  race  after  the  calves  or 
steers,  but  he  could  only  say: 

"Wait,  Gwen.     Try  to  be  patient" 

"I  am  patient;  at  least  I  have  been  patient  for 
two  whole  months,  and  it's  no  use,  and  I  don't 
believe  God  cares  one  bit!" 

"Yes,  He  does,  Gwen,  more  than  any  of  us," 
replied  The  Pilot,  earnestly. 

"No,  He  does  not  care,"  she  answered,  with 
angry  emphasis,  and  The  Pilot  made  no  reply. 

"Perhaps,"  she  went  on,  hesitatingly,  "He's 
angry  because  I  said  I  didn't  care  for  Him,  you 
remember?  That  was  very  wicked.  But  don't 
you  think  I'm  punished  nearly  enough  now? 
You  made  me  very  angry,  and  I  didn't  really 
mean  it." 

Poor  Gwen!  God  had  grown  to  be  very  real  to 
her  during  these  weeks  of  pain,  and  very  terrible. 
The  Pilot  looked  down  a  moment  into  the  blue- 


174  The  Sky  Pilot 

gray  eyes,  grown  so  big  and  so  pitiful,  and 
hurriedly  dropping  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed  he 
said,  in  a  very  unsteady  voice : 

"Oh,  Gwen,  Gwen,  He's  not  like  that.  Don't 
you  remember  how  Jesus  was  with  the  poor  sick 
people?  That's  what  He's  like." 

"Could  Jesus  make  me  well?" 

"Yes,  Gwen." 

"Then  why  doesn't  He?"  she  asked;  and  there 
was  no  impatience  now,  but  only  trembling 
anxiety  as  she  went  on  in  a  timid  voice:  "I  asked 
Him  to,  over  and  over,  and  said  I  would  wait  two 
months,  and  now  it's  more  than  three.  Are  you 
quite  sure  He  hears  now?"  She  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow  and  gazed  searchingly  into  The  Pilot's 
face.  I  was  glad  it  was  not  into  mine.  As  she 
uttered  the  words,  "Are  you  quite  sure?"  one  felt 
that  things  were  in  the  balance.  I  could  not  help 
looking  at  The  Pilot  with  intense  anxiety.  What 
would  he  answer?  The  Pilot  gazed  out  of  the 
window  upon  the  hills  for  a  few  moments.  How 
long  the  silence  seemed!  Then,  turning,  looked 
into  the  eyes  that  searched  his  so  steadily  and 
answered  simply: 

"Yes,  Gwen,  I  am  quite  sure!"  Then,  with 
quick  inspiration,  he  got  her  mother's  Bible  and 


The  Canyon  Flowers  175 

said:  "Now,  Gwen,  try  to  see  it  as  I  read."  But, 
before  he  read,  with  the  true  artist's  instinct  he 
created  the  proper  atmosphere.  By  a  few  vivid 
words  he  made  us  feel  the  pathetic  loneliness  of 
the  Man  of  Sorrows  in  His  last  sad  days.  Then 
he  read  that  masterpiece  of  all  tragic  picturing, 
the  story  of  Gethsemane.  And  as  he  read  we 
saw  it  all.  The  garden  and  the  trees  and  the 
sorrow-stricken  Man  alone  with  His  mysterious 
agony.  We  heard  the  prayer  so  pathetically  sub- 
missive and  then,  for  answer,  the  rabble  and  the 
traitor. 

Gwen  was  far  too  quick  to  need  explanation, 
and  The  Pilot  only  said,  "You  see,  Gwen,  God 
gave  nothing  but  the  best — to  His  own  Son  only 
the  best." 

"The  best?  They  took  Him  away,  didn't 
they?"  She  knew  the  story  well. 

"Yes,  but  listen."  He  turned  the  leaves 
rapidly  and  read:  "  'We  see  Jesus  for  the  suffer- 
ing of  death  crowned  with  glory  and  honor.' 
That  is  how  He  got  His  Kingdom." 

Gwen  listened  silent  but  unconvinced,  and  then 
said  slowly: 

"But  how  can  this  be  best  for  me?  I  am  no  use 
to  anyone.  It  can't  be  best  to  just  lie  here  and 


1 76  The  Sky  Pilot 

make  them  all  wait  on  me,  and — and — I  did  want 
to  help  daddy — and — oh — I  know  they  will  get 
tired  of  me!  They  are  getting  tired  already — I — 
I — can't  help'being  hateful." 

She  was  by  this  time  sobbing  as  I  had  never 
heard  her  before — deep,  passionate  sobs.  Then 
again  the  Pilot  had  an  inspiration. 

"Now,  Gwen,"  he  said  severely,  "you  know 
we're  not  as  mean  as  that,  and  that  you  are  just 
talking  nonsense,  every  word.  Now  I'm  going 
to  smooth  out  your  red  hair  and  tell  you  a  story. ' ' 

"It's  not  red,"  she  cried,  between  her  sobs. 
This  was  her  sore  point. 

"It  is  red,  as  red  can  be;  a  beautiful,  shining 
purple  red,"  said  The  Pilot  emphatically,  begin- 
ning to  brush. 

"Purple!"  cried  Gwen,  scornfully. 

"Yes,  I've  seen  it  in  the  sun,  purple.  Haven't 
you?"  said  The  Pilot,  appealing  to  me.  "And 
my  story  is  about  the  canyon,  our  canyon,  your 
canyon,  down  there." 

"Is  it  true?"  asked  Gwen,  already  soothed  by 
the  cool,  quick-moving  hands. 

"True?  It's  as  true  as — as — "  he  glanced 
round  the  room,  "as  the  Pilgrim's  Progress." 
This  was  satisfactory,  and  the  story  went  on. 


The  Canyon  Flowers  177 

"At  first  there  were  no  canyons,  but  only  the 
broad,  open  prairie.  One  day  the  Master 
of  the  Prairie,  walking  out  over  his  great 
lawns,  where  were  only  grasses,  asked  the 
Prairie,  'Where  are  your  flowers?'  and  the  Prairie 
said,  'Master,  I  have  no  seeds.'  Then  he  spoke 
to  the  birds,  and  they  carried  seeds  of  every  kind 
of  flower  and  strewed  them  far  and  wide,  and 
soon  the  Prairie  bloomed  with  crocuses  and 
roses  and  buffalo  beans  and  the  yellow  crowfoot 
and  the  wild  sunflowers  and  the  red  lilies  all  the 
summer  long.  Then  the  Master  came  and  was 
well  pleased;  but  he  missed  the  flowers  he  loved 
best  of  all,  and  he  said  to  the  Prairie:  'Where  are 
the  clematis  and  the  columbine,  the  sweet  violets 
and  wind  flowers,  and  all  the  ferns  and  flowering 
shrubs?'  And  again  he  spoke  to  the  birds,  and 
again  they  carried  all  the  seeds  and  strewed  them 
far  and  wide.  But,  again,  when  the  Master 
came,  he  could  not  find  the  flowers  he  loved  best 
of  all,  and  he  said:  'Where  are  those,  my  sweetest 
flowers?'  and  the  Prairie  cried  sorrowfully:  'Oh, 
Master,  I  cannot  keep  the  flowers,  for  the  winds 
sweep  fiercely,  and  the  sun  beats  upon  my 
breast,  and  they  wither  up  and  fly  away. '  Then 
the  Master  spoke  to  the  Lightning,  and  with  one 


i/8  The  Sky  Pilot 

swift  blow  the  Lightning  cleft  the  Prairie  to  the 
heart.  And  the  Prairie  rocked  and  groaned  in 
agony,  and  for  many  a  day  moaned  bitterly  over 
its  black,  jagged,  gaping  wound.  But  the  Little 
Swan  poured  its  waters  through  the  cleft,  and 
carried  down  deep  black  mould,  and  once  more 
the  birds  carried  seeds  and  strewed  them  in  the 
canyon.  And  after  a  long  time  the  rough  rocks 
were  decked  out  with  soft  mosses  and  trailing 
vines,  and  all  the  nooks  were  hung  with  clematis 
and  columbine,  and  great  elms  lifted  their  huge 
tops  high  up  into  the  sunlight,  and  down  about 
their  feet  clustered  the  low  cedars  and  balsams, 
and  everywhere  the  violets  and  wind-flower  and 
maiden-hair  grew  and  bloomed,  till  the  canyon 
became  the  Master's  place  for  rest  and  peace 
and  joy." 

The  quaint  tale  was  ended,  and  Gwen  lay  quiet 
for  some  moments,  then  said  gently: 

"Yes!  The  canyon  flowers  are  much  the  best. 
Tell  me  what  it  means. ' ' 

Then  The  Pilot  read  to  her:  "The  fruits— I'll 
read  'flowers' — of  the  Spirit  are  love,  joy,  peace, 
long-suffering,  gentleness,  goodness^  faith,  meek- 
ness, self-control,  and  some  of  these  grow  only  in 
the  canyon." 


The  Canyon  Flowers  179 

"Which  are  the  canyon  flowers?"  asked  Gwen 
softly,  and  The  Pilot  answered: 

"Gentleness,  meekness,  self-control;  but 
though  the  others,  love,  joy,  peace,  bloom  in  the 
open,  yet  never  with  so  rich  a  bloom  and  so  sweet 
a  perfume  as  in  the  canyon." 

For  a  long  time  Gwen  lay  quite  still,  and  then 
said  wistfully,  while  her  lip  trembled: 

"There  are  no  flowers  in  my  canyon,  but  only 
ragged  rocks. ' ' 

"Some  day  they  will  bloom,  Gwen  dear;  He 
will  find  them,  and  we,  too,  shall  see  them." 

Then  he  said  good-by  and  took  me  away.  He 
had  done  his  work  that  day. 

We  rode  through  the  big  gate,  down  the  sloping 
hill,  past  the  smiling,  twinkling  little  lake,  and 
down  again  out  of  the  broad  sunshine  into  the 
shadows  and  soft  lights  of  the  canyon.  As  we 
followed  the  trail  that  wound  among  the 'elms  and 
cedars,  the  very  air  was  full  of  gentle  stillness; 
and  as  we  moved  we  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of 
loving  hands  that  lingered  while  they  left  us,  and 
every  flower  and  tree  and  vine  and  shrub  and  the 
soft  mosses  and  the  deep-bedded  ferns  whispered, 
as  we  passed,  of  love  and  peace  and  joy. 

To  The  Duke  it  was  all  a  wonder,  for  as  the 


i8o  The  Sky  Pilot 

days  shortened  outside  they  brightened  inside; 
and  every  day,  and  more  and  more  Gwen's  room 
became  the  brightest  spot  in  all  the  house,  and 
when  he  asked  The  Pilot: 

"What  did  you  do  to  the  Little  Princess,  and 
what's  all  this  about  the  canyon  and  its  flowers?" 
The  Pilot  said,  looking  wistfully  into  The  Duke's 
eyes: 

"The  fruits  of  the  Spirit  are  love,  peace,  long- 
suffering,  gentleness,  goodness,  faith,  meekness, 
self-control,  and  some  of  these  are  found  only  in 
the  canyon,"  and  The  Duke,  standing  up  straight, 
handsome  and  strong,  looked  back  at  The  Pilot 
and  said,  putting  out  his  hand : 

"Do  you  know,  I  believe  you're  right." 

"Yes,  I'm  quite  sure,"  answered  The  Pilot, 
simply.  Then,  holding  The  Duke's  hand  as 
long  as  one  man  dare  hold  another's,  he  added: 
"When  you  come  to  your  canyon,  remember." 

"When  I  come!"  said  The  Duke,  and  a  quick 
spasm  of  pain  passed  over  his  handsome  face — 
"God  help  me,  it's  not  too  far  away  now."  Then 
he  smiled  again  his  old,  sweet  smile,  and  said : 

"Yes,  you  are  all  right,  for,  of  all  flowers  I 
have  seen,  none  are  fairer  or  sweeter  than  those 
that  are  waving  in  Gwen's  Canyon." 


Bill's  Bluff 


181 


CHAPTER  XIV 
BILL'S  BLUFF 

The  Pilot  had  set  his  heart  upon  the  building  of 
a  church  in  the  Swan  Creek  district,  partly 
because  he  was  human  and  wished  to  set  a  mark 
of  remembrance  upon  the  country,  but  more 
because  he  held  the  sensible  opinion  that  a  con- 
gregation, as  a  man,  must  have  a  home  if  it  is  to 
stay. 

All  through  the  summer  he  kept  setting  this 
as  an  object  at  once  desirable  and  possible  to 
achieve.  But  few  were  found  to  agree  with  him. 

Little  Mrs.  Muir  was  of  the  few,  and  she  was 
not  to  be  despised,  but  her  influence  was  neutral- 
ized by  the  solid  immobility  of  her  husband.  He 
had  never  done  anything  sudden  in  his  life. 
Every  resolve  was  the  result  of  a  long  process  of 
mind,  and  every  act  of  importance  had  to  be  pre- 
viewed from  all  possible  points.  An  honest  man, 
strongly  religious,  and  a  great  admirer  of  The 
Pilot,  but  slow-moving  as  a  glacier,  although  with 
plenty  of  fire  in  him  deep  down. 

183 


1 84  The  Sky  Pilot 

"He's  soond  at  the  hairt,  ma  man  Robbie,"  his 
wife  said  to  The  Pilot,  who  was  fuming  and  fret- 
ting at  the  blocking  of  his  plans,  "but  he's  ter- 
rible deleeberate.  Bide  ye  a  bit,  laddie.  He'll 
come  tae. " 

"But  meantime  the  summer's  going  and  noth- 
ing will  be  done,"  was  The  Pilot's  distressed  and 
impatient  answer. 

So  a  meeting  was  called  to  discuss  the  question 
of  building  a  church,  with  the  result  that  the  five 
men  and  three  women  present  decided  that  for 
the  present  nothing  could  be  done.  This  was 
really  Robbie's  opinion,  though  he  refused  to  do 
or  say  anything  but  grunt,  as  The  Pilot  said  to  me 
afterwards,  in  a  rage.  It  is  true,  Williams,  the 
storekeeper  just  come  from  "across  the  line," 
did  all  the  talking,  but  no  one  paid  much  atten- 
tion to  his  fluent  fatuities  except  as  they  repre- 
sented the  unexpressed  mind  of  the  dour, 
exasperating  little  Scotchman,  who  sat  silent  but 
for  an  "ay"  now  and  then,  so  expressive  and  con- 
clusive that  everyone  knew  what  he  meant,  and 
that  discussion  was  at  an  end.  The  schoolhouse 
was  quite  sufficient  for  the  present;  the  people 
were  too  few  and  too  poor  and  they  were  get- 
ting on  well  under  the  leadership  of  their  present 


Bill's  Bluff  185 

minister.  These  were  the  arguments  which 
Robbie's  "ay"  stamped  as  quite  unanswerable. 

It  was  a  sore  blow  to  The  Pilot,  who  had  set  his 

t 

heart  upon  a  church,  and  neither  Mrs.  Muir's 
"hoots"  at  her  husband's  slowness  nor  her  prom- 
ises that  she  "wad  mak  him  hear  it"  could  bring 
comfort  or  relieve  his  gloom. 

In  this  state  of  mind  he  rode  up  with  me  to  pay 
our  weekly  visit  to  the  little  girl  shut  up  in  her 
lonely  house  among  the  hills. 

It  had  become  The  Pilot's  custom  during  these 
weeks  to  turn  for  cheer  to  that  little  room,  and 
seldom  was  he  disappointed.  She  was  so  bright, 
so  brave,  so  cheery,  and  so  full  of  fun,  that  gloom 
faded  from  her  presence  as  mist  before  the  sun, 
and  impatience  was  shamed  into  content. 

Gwen's  bright  face — it  was  almost  always 
bright  now — and  her  bright  welcome  did  some- 
thing for  The  Pilot,  but  the  feeling  of  failure  was 
upon  him,  and  failure  to  his  enthusiastic  nature 
was  worse  than  pain.  Not  that  he  confessed 
either  to  failure  or  gloom;  he  was  far  too  true  a 
man  for  that;  but  Gwen  felt  his  depression  in 
spite  of  all  his  brave  attempts  at  brightness,  and 
insisted  that  he  was  ill,  appealing  to  me. 

"Oh,  it's  only  his  church,"  I  said,  proceeding 


1 86  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  give  her  an  account  of  Robbie  Muir's  silent, 
solid  inertness,  and  how  he  had  blocked  The 
Pilot's  scheme. 

"What  a  shame!"  cried  Gwen,  indignantly. 
'"What  a  bad  man  he  must  be!" 

The  Pilot  smiled.  "No,  indeed,"  he  answered; 
"why,  he's  the  best  man  in  the  place,  but  I  wish 
he  would  say  or  do  something.  If  he  would  only 
get  mad  and  swear  I  think  I  should  feel  happier." 

Gwen  looked  quite  mystified. 

"You  see,  he  sits  there  in  solemn  silence  look- 
ing so  tremendously  wise  that  most  men  feel  fool- 
ish if  they  speak,  while  as  for  doing  anything  the 
idea  appears  preposterous,  in  the  face  of  his 
immovableness. ' ' 

"I  can't  bear  him!"  cried  Gwen.  "I  should 
like  to  stick  pins  in  him." 

"I  wish  some  one  would,"  answered  The  Pilot. 
"It  would  make  him  seem  more  human  if  he 
could  be  made  to  jump. ' ' 

"Try  again,"  said  Gwen,  "and  get  someone  to 
make  him  jump. " 

"It  would  be  easier  to  build  the  church,"  said 
The  Pilot,  gloomily. 

"I  could  make  him  jump,"  said  Gwen, 
viciously,  "and  I  will"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 


Bill's  Bluff  187 

"You!"  answered  The  Pilot,  opening  his  eyes. 
"How?" 

"I'll  find  some  way,"  she  replied,  resolutely. 

And  so  she  did,  for  when  the  next  meeting  wag 
called  to  consult  as  to  the  building  of  a  church, 
the  congregation,  chiefly  of  farmers  and  their 
wives,  with  Williams,  the  storekeeper,  were 
greatly  surprised  to  see  Bronco  Bill,  Hi,  and 
half  a  dozen  ranchers  and  cowboys  walk  in  at 
intervals  and  solemnly  seat  themselves.  Robbie 
looked  at  them  with  surprise  and  a  little  sus- 
picion. In  church  matters  he  had  no  dealings 
with  the  Samaritans  from  the  hills,  and  while,  in 
their  unregenerate  condition,  they  might  be 
regarded  as  suitable  objects  of  missionary  effort, 
as  to  their  having  any  part  in  the  direction,  much 
less  control,  of  the  church  policy — from  such  a 
notion  Robbie  was  delivered  by  his  loyal  adher- 
ence to  the  scriptural  injunction  that  he  should 
not  cast  pearls  before  swine. 

The  Pilot,  though  surprised  to  see  Bill  and  the 
cattle  men,  was  none  the  less  delighted,  and 
faced  the  meeting  with  more  confidence.  He 
stated  the  question  for  discussion:  Should  a 
church  building  be  erected  this  summer  in  Swan 
Creek?  and  he  put  his  case  well.  He  showed  the 


1 88  The  Sky  Pilot 

need  of  a  church  for  the  sake  of  the  congrega- 
tion, for  the  sake  of  the  men  in  the  district,  the 
families  growing  up,  the  incoming  settlers,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  country  and  its  future.  He 
called  upon  all  who  loved  their  church  and  their 
country  to  unite  in  this  effort.  It  was  an  enthusi- 
astic appeal  and  all  the  women  and  some  of  the 
men  were  at  once  upon  his  side. 

Then  followed  dead,  solemn  silence.  Robbie 
was  content  to  wait  till  the  effect  of  the  speech 
should  be  dissipated  in  smaller  talk.  Then  he 
gravely  said: 

"The  kirk  wad  be  a  gran'  thing,  nae  doot,  an' 
they  wad  a'  dootless" — with  a  suspicious  glance 
toward  Bill — "rejoice  in  its  erection.  But  we 
maun  be  cautious,  an'  I  wad  like  to  enquire  hoo 
much  money  a  kirk  cud  be  built  for,  and  whaur 
the  money  wad  come  frae?" 

The  Pilot  was  ready  with  his  answer.  The 
cost  would  be  $1,200.  The  Church  Building 
Fund  would  contribute  $200,  the  people  could  give 
$300  in  labor,  and  the  remaining  $700  he  thought 
could  be  raised  in  the  district  in  two  years'  time. 

"Ay,"  said  Robbie,  and  the  tone  and  manner 
were  sufficient  to  drench  any  enthusiasm  with  the 
chilliest  of  water.  So  much  was  this  the  case 


Bill's  Bluff  189 

that  the  chairman,  Williams,  seemed  quite  justi- 
fied in  saying : 

"It  is  quite  evident  that  the  opinion  of  the 
meeting  is  adverse  to  any  attempt  to  load  the 
community  with  a  debt  of  one  thousand  dollars," 
and  he  proceeded  with  a  very  complete  statement 
of  the  many  and  various  objections  to  any 
attempt  at  building  a  church  this  year.  The 
people  were  very  few,  they  were  dispersed  over  a 
large  area,  they  were  not  interested  sufficiently, 
they  were  all  spending  money  and  making  little 
in  return ;  he  supposed,  therefore,  that  the  meet- 
ing might  adjourn. 

Robbie  sat  silent  and  expressionless  in  spite  of 
his  little  wife's  anxious  whispers  and  nudges. 
The  Pilot  looked  the  picture  of  woe,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  bursting  forth,  when  the  meeting  was 
startled  by  Bill. 

"Say,  boys!  they  hain't  much  stuck  on  their 
shop,  heh?"  The  low,  drawling  voice  was  per- 
fectly distinct  and  arresting. 

"Hain't  got  no  use  for  it,  seemingly,"  was  the 
answer  from  the  dark  corner. 

"Old  Scotchie  takes  his  religion  out  in  prayin', 
I  guess,"  drawled  in  Bill,  "but  wants  to  sponge 
for  his  plant." 


190  The  Sky  Pilot 

This  reference  to  Robbie's  proposal  to  use  the 
school  moved  the  youngsters  to  tittering  and 
made  the  little  Scotchman  squirm,  for  he  prided 
himself  upon  his  independence. 

"There  ain't  $700  in  the  hull  blanked  outfit." 
This  was  a  stranger's  voice,  and  again  Robbie 
squirmed,  for  he  rather  prided  himself  also  on  his 
ability  to  pay  his  way. 

"No  good!"  said  another  emphatic  voice.  "A 
blanked  lot  o'  psalm-singing  snipes." 

"Order,  order!"  cried  the  chairman. 

"Old  Windbag  there  don't  see  any  show  for 
swipin'  the  collection,  with  Scotchie  round," 
said  Hi,  with  a  following  ripple  of  quiet  laughter, 
for  Williams'  reputation  was  none  too  secure. 

Robbie  was  in  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of 
mind.  So  unusually  stirred  was  he  that  for  the 
first  time  in  his  history  he  made  a  motion. 

"I  move  we  adjourn,  Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  which  actually  vibrated  with  emotion. 

"Different  here!  eh,  boys?"  drawled  Bill. 

"You  bet,"  said  Hi,  in  huge  delight.  "The 
meetin'  ain't  out  yit. " 

"Ye  can  bide  till  mor-r-nin',"  said  Robbie, 
angrily.  "A'm  gaen  hame,"  beginning  to  put 
on  his  coat. 


Bill's  Bluff  191 

"Seems  as  if  he  orter  give  the  password," 
drawled  Bill. 

"Right  you  are,  pardner,"  said  Hi,  springing 
to  the  door  and  waiting  in  delighted  expectation 
for  his  friend's  lead. 

Robbie  looked  at  the  door,  then  at  his  wife, 
hesitated  a  moment,  I  have  no  doubt  wishing  her 
home.  Then  Bill  stood  up  and  began  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Chairman,  I  hain't  been  called  on  for  any 
remarks ' ' 

"Go  on!"  yelled  his  friends  from  the  dark 
corner.  "Hear!  hear!" 

"An*  I  didn't  feel  as  if  this  war  hardly  my  game, 
though  The  Pilot  ain't  mean  about  invitin'  a 
feller  on  Sunday  afternoons.  But  them  as  runs 
the  shop  don't  seem  to  want  us  fellers  round  too 
much." 

Robbie  was  gazing  keenly  at  Bill,  and  here 
shook  his  head,  muttering  angrily :  "Hoots,  non- 
sense! ye 're  welcome  eneuch." 

"But,"  went  on  Bill,  slowly,  "I  guess  I've  been 
on  the  wrong  track.  I've  been  a-cherishin'  the 
opinion"  ["Hear!  hear!"  yelled  his  admirers], 
"cherishin*  the  opinion,"  repeated  Bill,  "that 
these  fellers,"  pointing  to  Robbie,  "was  stuck  on 
religion,  which  I  ain't  much  myself,  and  reely 


192  The  Sky  Pilot 

consarned  about  the  blocking  ov  the  devil,  which 
The  Pilot  says  can't  be  did  without  a  regular 
Gospel  factory.  O'  course,  it  tain't  any  biznis  ov 
mine,  but  if  us  fellers  was  reely  only  sot  on  any- 
thing condoocin',"  ["Hear!  hear!"  yelled  Hi,  in 
ecstasy],  "condoocin',"  repeated  Bill  slowly  and 
with  relish,  "to  the  good  ov  the  Order"  (Bill  was 
a  brotherhood  man),  "I  b'lieve  I  know  whar  five 
hundred  dollars  mebbe  cud  per'aps  be  got." 

"You  bet  your  sox,"  yelled  the  strange  voice, 
in  chorus  with  other  shouts  of  approval. 

"Of  course,  I  ain't  no  bettin'  man,"  went  on 
Bill,  insinuatingly,  "as  a  regular  thing,  but  I'd 
gamble  a  few  jist  here  on  this  pint;  if  the  boys 
was  stuck  on  anythin'  costin'  about  seven  hun- 
dred dollars,  it  seems  to  me  likely  they'd  git  it  in 
about  two  days,  per'aps." 

Here  Robbie  grunted  out  an  "ay"  of  such  ful- 
ness of  contemptuous  unbelief  that  Bill  paused, 
and,  looking  over  Robbie's  head,  he  drawled  out, 
even  more  slowly  and  mildly: 

"I  ain't  much  given  to  bettin',  as  I  remarked 
before,  but,  if  a  man  shakes  money  at  me  on  that 
proposition,  I'd  accommodate  him  to  a  limited 
extent"  ["Hear!  hear!  Bully  boy!"  yelled  Hi 
again,  from  the  door.]  "Not  bein'  too  bold,  I 


Bill's  Bluff  193 

cherish  the  opinion"  [again  yells  of  approval 
from  the  corner],  "that  even  for  this  here  Gospel 
plant,  seem'  The  Pilot's  rather  sot  onto  it,  I 
b'lieve  the  boys  could  find  five  hundred  dollars 
inside  ov  a  month,  if  perhaps  these  fellers  cud 
wiggle  the  rest  out  o v  their  pants. ' ' 

Then  Robbie  was  in  great  wrath  and,  stung  by 
the  taimting,  drawling  voice  beyond  all  self-com- 
mand, he  broke  out  suddenly: 

"Ye'll  no  can  mak  that  guid,  I  doot. " 

"D'ye  mean  I  ain't  prepared  to  back  it  up?" 

"Ay,"  said  Robbie,  grimly. 

"  'Tain't  likely  I'll  be  called  on;  I  guess  $500 
is  safe  enough, ' '  drawled  Bill,  cunningly  drawing 
him  on.  Then  Robbie  bit. 

"Oo  ay!"  said  he,  in  a  voice  of  quiet  contempt, 
"the  twa  hunner  wull  be  here  and  'twull  wait  ye 
long  eneuch,  I'se  warrant  ye." 

Then  Bill  nailed  him. 

"I  hain't  got  my  card  case  on  my  person,"  he 
said,  with  a  slight  grin. 

"Left  it  on  the  pianner,"  suggested  Hi,  who 
was  in  a  state  of  great  hilarity  at  Bill's  success  in 
drawing  the  Scottie. 

"But,"  Bill  proceeded,  recovering  himself,  and 
with  increasing  suavity,  "if  some  gentleman  would 


194 

mark  down  the  date  of  the  almanac  I  cherish  the 
opinion"  [cheers  from  the  corner]  "that  in  one 
month  from  to-day  there  will  be  five  hundred 
dollars  lookin'  round  for  two  hundred  on  that 
there  desk  mebbe,  or  p'raps  you  would  incline  to 
two  fifty, ' '  he  drawled,  in  his  most  winning  tone 
to  Robbie,  who  was  growing  more  impatient 
every  moment. 

"Nae  matter  tae  me.  Ye're  haverin'  like  a 
daft  loon,  ony  way." 

"You  will  make  a  memento  of  this  slight 
transaction,  boys,  and  per'aps  the  schoolmaster 
will  write  it  down,"  said  Bill. 

It  was  all  carefully  taken  down,  and  amid  much 
enthusiastic  confusion  the  ranchers  and  their 
gang  carried  Bill  off  to  Old  Latour's  to  "licker 
up,"  while  Robbie,  in  deep  wrath  but  in  dour 
silence,  went  off  through  the  dark  with  his  little 
wife  following  some  paces  behind  him.  His  chief 
grievance,  however,  was  against  the  chairman  for 
"allooin*  sic  a  disorderly  pack  o*  loons  tae  disturb 
respectable  fowk,"  for  he  could  not  hide  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  made  to  break  through  his 
accustomed  defence  line  of  immovable  silence.  I 
suggested,  conversing  with  him  next  day  upon 
the  matter,  that  Bill  was  probably  only  chaffing. 


Bill's  Bluff  195 

"Ay,  "  said  Robbie,  in  great  disgust,  "the  daft 
eejut,  he  wad  mak  a  fule  o'  onything  or  ony- 
buddie. ' ' 

That  was  the  sorest  point  with  poor  Robbie. 
Bill  had  not  only  cast  doubts  upon  his  reli- 
gious sincerity,  which  the  little  man  could  not 
endure,  but  he  had  also  held  him  up  to  the 
ridicule  of  the  community,  which  was  painful  to 
his  pride.  But  when  he  understood,  some  days 
later,  that  Bill  was  taking  steps  to  back  up  his 
offer  and  had  been  heard  to  declare  that  "he'd 
make  them  pious  ducks  take  water  if  he  had  to 
put  up  a  year's  pay,"  Robbie  went  quietly  to 
work  to  make  good  his  part  of  the  bargain.  For 
his  Scotch  pride  would  not  suffer  him  to  refuse  a 
challenge  from  such  a  quarter. 


Bill's  Partner 


197 


CHAPTER    XV 
BILL'S   PARTNER 

The  next  day  everyone  was  talking  of  Bill's 
bluffing  the  church  people,  and  there  was  much 
quiet  chuckling  over  the  discomfiture  of  Robbie 
Muir  and  his  party. 

The  Pilot  was  equally  distressed  and  "  bewil- 
dered, for  Bill's  conduct,  so  very  unusual,  had 
only  one  explanation — the  usual  one  for  any  folly 
in  that  country. 

"I  wish  he  had  waited  till  after  the  meeting  to 
go  to  Latour's.  He  spoiled  the  last  chance  I  had. 
There's  no  use  now,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"But  he  may  do  something,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  fiddle!"  said  The  Pilot,  contemptuously. 
"He  was  only  giving  Muir  'a  song  and  dance,'  as 
he  would  say.  The  whole  thing  is  off. ' ' 

But  when  I  told  Gwen  the  story  of  the  night's 
proceedings,  she  went  into  raptures  over  Bill's 
grave  speech  and  his  success  in  drawing  the  canny 
Scotchman. 

"Oh,  lovely!     Dear  old  Bill  and  his  'cherished 


200  The  Sky  Pilot 

opinion.'  Isn't  he  just  lovely?  Now  he'll  do 
something. ' ' 

"Who,  Bill?" 

"No,  that  stupid  Scottie."  This  was  her  name 
for  the  immovable  Robbie. 

"Not  he,  I'm  afraid.  Of  course  Bill  was  just 
bluffing  him.  But  it  was  good  sport." 

"Oh,  lovely!     I  knew  he'd  do  something." 

"Who?  Scottie?"  I  asked,  for  her  pronouns 
were  perplexing. 

"No!"  she  cried,  "Bill!  He  promised  he 
would,  you  know,"  she  added. 

"So  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  it?"  I  said, 
amazed. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  she  kept  crying,  shriek- 
ing with  laughter  over  Bill's  cherishing  opinions 
and  desires.  "I  shall  be  ill.  Dear  old  Bill.  He 
said  he'd  'try  to  get  a  move  on  to  him. '  " 

Before  I  left  that  day,  Bill  himself  came  to  the 
Old  Timer's  ranch,  inquiring  in  a  casual  way 
"if  the  'boss'  was  in." 

"Oh,  Bill!"  called  out  Gwen,  "come  in  here  at 
once;  I  want  you." 

After  some  delay  and  some  shuffling  with  hat 
and  spurs,  Bill  lounged  in  and  set  his  lank  form 
upon  the  extreme  end  of  a  bench  at  the  door,  try- 


Bill's  Partner  201 

ing  to  look  unconcerned  as  he  remarked:  "Gittin* 
cold.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd  have  a  little 
snow. ' ' 

"Oh,  come  here,"  cried  Gwen,  impatiently, 
holding  out  her  hand.  "Come  here  and  shake 
hands." 

Bill  hesitated,  spat  out  into  the  other  room  his 
quid  of  tobacco,  and  swayed  awkwardly  across 
the  room  toward  the  bed,  and,  taking  Gwen's 
hand,  he  shook  it  up  and  down,  and  hurriedly  said : 

"Fine  day,  ma'am;  hope  I  see  you  quite  well." 

"No;  you  don't,"  cried  Gwen,  laughing 
immoderately,  but  keeping  hold  of  Bill's  hand,  to 
his  great  confusion.  "I'm  not  well  a  bit,  but  I'm 
a  great  deal  better  since  hearing  of  your  meeting, 
Bill." 

To  this  Bill  made  no  reply,  being  entirely 
engrossed  in  getting  his  hard,  bony,  brown  hand 
out  of  the  grasp  of  the  white,  clinging  fingers. 

"Oh,  Bill,"  went  on  Gwen,  "it  was  delightful! 
How  did  you  do  it?" 

But  Bill,  who  had  by  this  time  got  back  to  his 
seat  at  the  door,  pretended  ignorance  of  any 
achievement  calling  for  remark.  He  "hadn't 
done  nothin'  more  out  ov  the  way  than  usual." 

"Oh,  don't  talk  nonsense!"  cried  Gwen,  impa- 


202  The  Sky  Pilot 

tiently.  "Tell  me  how  you  got  Scottie  to  lay  you 
two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Bill,  in  great  surprise;  "that 
ain't  nuthin'  much.  Scottie  riz  slick  enough." 

"But  how  did  you  get  him?"  persisted  Gwen. 
"Tell  me,  Bill,"  she  added,  in  her  most  coaxing 
voice. 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  "it  was  easy  as  rollin'  off  a 
log.  I  made  the  remark  as  how  the  boys  giner- 
ally  put  up  for  what  they  wanted  without  no  fuss, 
and  that  if  they  was  sot  on  havin'  a  Gospel  shack 
I  cherished  the  opinion" — here  Gwen  went  off 
into  a  smothered  shriek,  which  made  Bill  pause 
and  look  at  her  in  alarm. 

"Go  on,"  she  gasped. 

"I  cherished  the  opinion,"  drawled  on  Bill, 
while  Gwen  stuck  her  handkerchief  into  her 
mouth,  "that  mebbe  they'd  put  up  for  it  the  seven 
hundred  dollars,  and,  even  as  it  was,  seem'  as  The 
Pilot  appeared  to  be  sot  on  to  it,  if  them  fellers 

would  find  two  hundred  and  fifty  I  cher " 

another  shriek  from  Gwen  cut  him  suddenly 
short. 

"It's  the  rheumaticks,  mebbe,"  said  Bill,  anx- 
iously. "Terrible  bad  weather  for  'em.  I  get 
'em  myself." 


Bill's  Partner  203 

"No,  no,"  said  Gwen,  wiping  away  her  tears 
and  subduing  her  laughter.  "Go  on,  Bill." 

"There  ain't  no  more,"  said  Bill.  "He  bit, 
and  the  master  here  put  it  down." 

"Yes,  it's  here  right  enough,"  I  said,  "but  I 
don't  suppose  you  mean  to  follow  it  up,  do 
you?" 

"You  don't,  eh?  Well,  I  am  not  responsible 
for  your  supposing  but  them  that  is  familiar  with 
Bronco  Bill  generally  expects  him  to  back  up  his 
undertaking. " 

"But  how  in  the  world  can  you  get  five  hundred 
dollars  from  the  cowboys  for  a  church?" 

"I  hain't  done  the  arithmetic  yet,  but  it's  safe 
enough.  You  see,  it  ain't  the  church  altogether, 
it's  the  reputation  of  the  boys. ' ' 

"I'll  help,  Bill,"  said  Gwen. 

Bill  nodded  his  head  slowly  and  said:  "Proud 
to  have  you,"  trying  hard  to  look  enthusiastic. 

"You  don't  think  I  can,"  said  Gwen.  Bill  pro- 
tested against  such  an  imputation.  "But  I  can. 
I'll  get  daddy  and  The  Duke,  too." 

"Good  line!"  said  Bill,  slapping  his  knee. 

"And  I'll  give  all  my  money,  too,  but  it  isn't 
very  much,"  she  added,  sadly. 

"Much!"  said  Bill,  "if  the  rest  of  the  fellows 


204  The  Sky  Pilot 

play  up  to  that  lead  there  won't  be  any  trouble 
about  that  five  hundred. ' ' 

Gwen  was  silent  for  some  time,  then  said  with 
an  air  of  resolve  : 

"I'll  give  my  pinto!" 

"Nonsense!"  I  exclaimed,  while  Bill  declared 
"there  warn't  no  call." 

"Yes.  I '11  give  the  Pinto!  "said  Gwen,  decidedly. 
"I'll  not  need  him  any  more,"  her  lips  quivered, 
and  Bill  coughed  and  spat  into  the  next  room, 
"and  besides,  I  want  to  give  something  I  like. 
And  Bill  will  sell  him  for  me!" 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  slowly,  "now  come  to  think, 
it'll  be  purty  hard  to  sell  that  there  pinto." 
Gwen  began  to  exclaim  indignantly,  and  Bill 
hurried  on  to  say,  "Not  but  what  he  ain't  a  good 
leetle  horse  for  his  weight,  good  leetle  horse,  but 
for  cattle " 

"Why,  Bill,  there  isn't  a  better  cattle  horse 
anywhere!" 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  assented  Bill.  "That's  so,  if 
you've  got  the  rider,  but  put  one  of  them  rangers 
on  to  him  and  it  wouldn't  be  no  fair  show." 
Bill  was  growing  more  convinced  every  moment 
that  the  pinto  wouldn't  sell  to  any  advantage. 
"Ye  see,"  he  explained  carefully  and  cunningly, 


Bill's  Partner  205 

"he  ain't  a  horse  you  could  yank  round  and  slam 
into  a  bunch  of  steers  regardless." 

Gwen  shuddered,  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  think  of 
selling  him  to  any  of  those  cowboys."  Bill 
crossed  his  legs  and  hitched  round  uncomfortably 
on  his  bench.  "I  mean  one  of  those  rough  fel- 
lows that  don't  know  how  to  treat  a  horse."  Bill 
nodded,  looking  relieved.  "I  thought  that  some 
one  like  you,  Bill,  who  knew  how  to  handle  a 
horse " 

Gwen  paused,  and  then  added:  "I'll  ask  The 
Duke." 

"No  call  for  that,"  said  Bill,  hastily,  "not  but 
wnat  The  Dook  ain't  all  right  as  a  jedge  of  a 
horse,  but  The  Dook  ain't  got  the  connection,  it 
ain't  his  line."  Bill  hesitated.  "But,  if  you  are 
real  sot  on  to  sellin'  that  pinto,  come  to  think  I 
guess  I  could  find  a  sale  for  him,  though,  of 
course,  I  think  perhaps  the  figger  won't  be  high. " 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  the  pinto  should  be 
sold  and  that  Bill  should  have  the  selling  of  it. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Gwen  that  she  would 
not  take  farewell  of  the  pony  on  whose  back  she 
had  spent  so  many  hours  of  freedom  and  delight. 
When  once  she  gave  him  up  she  refused  to  allow 
her  heart  to  cling  to  him  any  more. 


206  The  Sky  Pilot 

It  was  characteristic,  too,  of  Bill  that  he  led  off 
the  pinto  after  night  had  fallen,  so  that  "his  pard- 
ner' '  might  be  saved  the  pain  of  the  parting. 

"This  here's  rather  a  new  game  for  me,  but 
when  my  pardner, "  here  he  jerked  his  head 
towards  G wen's  window,  "calls  for  trumps,  I'm 
blanked  if  I  don't  throw  my  highest,  if  it  costs  a 
leg." 


Bill's   Financing 


207 


CHAPTER  XVI 
BILL'S  FINANCING 

Bill's  method  of  conducting  the  sale  of  the 
pinto  was  eminently  successful  as  a  financial 
operation,  but  there  are  those  in  the  Swan  Creek 
country  who  have  never  been  able  to  fathom  the 
mystery  attaching-  to  the  affair.  It  was  at  the 
fall  round-up,  the  beef  round-up,  as  it  is  called, 
which  this  year  ended  at  the  Ashley  Ranch. 
There  were  representatives  from  all  the  ranches 
and  some  cattle-men  from  across  the  line.  The 
hospitality  of  the  Ashley  Ranch  was  up  to  its  own 
lofty  standard,  and,  after  supper,  the  men  were  in 
a  state  of  high  exhilaration.  The  Hon.  Fred  and 
his  wife,  Lady  Charlotte,  gave  themselves  to  the 
duties  of  their  position  as  hosts  for  the  day  with  a 
heartiness  and  grace  beyond  praise.  After 
supper  the  men  gathered  round  the  big  fire, 
which  was  piled  up  before  the  long,  low  shed, 
which  stood  open  *in  front.  It  was  a  scene  of 
such  wild  and  picturesque  interest  as  can  only  be 

309 


210  The  Sky  Pilot 

witnessed  in  the  western  ranching  country. 
About  the  fire,  most  of  them  wearing  "snaps"  and 
all  of  them  wide,  hard-brimmed  cowboy  hats,  the 
men  grouped  themselves,  some  reclining  upon 
skins  thrown  upon  the  ground,  some  standing, 
some  sitting,  smoking,  laughing,  chatting,  all  in 
highest  spirits  and  humor.  They  had  just  got 
through  with  their  season  of  arduous  and,  at 
times,  dangerous  toil.  Their  minds  were  full  of 
their  long,  hard  rides,  their  wild  and  varying 
experiences  with  mad  cattle  and  bucking  bron- 
cos, their  anxious  watchings  through  hot  nights, 
when  a  breath  of  wind  or  a  coyote's  howl  might 
set  the  herd  off  in  a  frantic  stampede,  their 
wolf  hunts  and  badger  fights  and  all  the  mar- 
vellous adventures  that  fill  up  a  cowboy's  summer. 
Now  these  were  all  behind  them.  To-night  they 
were  free  men  and  of  independent  means,  for 
their  season's  pay  was  in  their  pockets.  The 
day's  excitement,  too,  was  still  in  their  blood, 
and  they  were  ready  for  anything. 

Bill,  as  king  of  the  bronco-busters,  moved 
about  with  the  slow,  careless  indifference  of  a 
man  sure  of  his  position  and  sure  of  his  ability  to 
maintain  it. 

He  spoke  seldom  and  slowly,  was  not  as  ready- 


Bill's  Financing  211 

witted  as  his  partner,  Hi  Kendal,  but  in  act  he 
was  swift  and  sure,  and  "in  trouble"  he  could  be 
counted  on.  He  was,  as  they  said,  "a  white  man ; 
white  to  the  back,"  which  was  understood  to  sum 
up  the  true  cattle  man's  virtues. 

"Hello,  Bill,"  said  a  friend,  "where's  Hi? 
Hain't  seen  him  around!" 

"Well,  don't  jest  know.  He  was  going  to 
bring  up  my  pinto." 

"Your  pinto?  What  pinto's  that:  You  hain't 
got  no  pinto ! ' ' 

"Mebbe  not,"  said  Bill,  slowly,  "but  I  had  the 
idee  before  you  spoke  that  I  had." 

"That  so?  Whar'd  ye  git  him?  Good  for 
cattle?"  The  crowd  began  to  gather. 

Bill  grew  mysterious,  and  even  more  than 
usually  reserved. 

"Good  fer  cattle!  Well,  I  ain't  much  on 
gamblin',  but  I've  got  a  leetle  in  my  pants  that 
says  that  there  pinto  kin  outwork  any  blanked 
bronco  in  this  outfit,  givin'  him  a  fair  show  after 
the  cattle." 

The  men  became  interested. 

"Whar  was  he  raised?" 

"Dunno." 

"Whar'd  ye  git  him?     Across  the  line?" 


212  The  Sky  Pilot 

"No,"  said  Bill  stoutly,  "right  in  this  here 
country.  The  Dook  there  knows  him. " 

This  at  once  raised  the  pinto  several  points. 
To  be  known,  and,  as  Bill's  tone  indicated, 
favorably  known  by  The  Duke,  was  a  testimonial 
to  which  any  horse  might  aspire. 

"Whar'd  ye  git  him,  Bill?  Don't  be  so  blanked 
oncommtmicatin'!"  said  an  impatient  voice. 

Bill  hesitated ;  then,  with  an  apparent  burst  of 
confidence,  he  assumed  his  frankest  manner  and 
voice,  and  told  his  tale. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  a  fresh  chew  and  offer- 
ing his  plug  to  his  neighbor,  who  passed  it  on 
after  helping  himself,  "ye  see,  it  was  like  this. 
Ye  know  that  little  Meredith  gel?" 

Chorus  of  answers:  "Yes!  The  red-headed  one. 
I  know!  She's  a  daisy! — reg'lar  blizzard! — light- 
nin'  conductor!" 

Bill  paused,  stiffened  himself  a  little,  dropped 
his  frank  air  and  drawled  out  in  cool,  hard  tones : 
"I  might  remark  that  that  young  lady  is,  I  might 
persoom  to  say,  a  friend  of  mine,  which  I'm  pre- 
pared to  back  up  in  my  best  style,  and  if  any 
blanked  blanked  son  of  a  street  sweeper  has  any 
remark  to  make,  here's  his  time  now!" 

In  the  pause  that  followed  murmurs  were  heard 


Bill's  Financing  213 

extolling  the  many  excellences  of  the  young  lady 
in  question,  and  Bill,  appeased,  yielded  to  the 
requests  for  the  continuance  of  his  story,  and,  as 
he  described  Gwen  and  her  pinto  and  her  work 
on  the  ranch,  the  men,  many  of  whom  had  had 
glimpses  of  her,  gave  emphatic  approval  in  their 
own  way.  But  as  he  told  of  her  rescue  of  Joe  and 
of  the  sudden  calamity  that  had  befallen  her  a 
great  stillness  fell  upon  the  simple,  tender-hearted 
fellows,  and  they  listened  with  their  eyes  shining 
in  the  firelight  with  growing  intentness.  Then 
Bill  spoke  of  The  Pilot  and  how  he  stood  by  her 
and  helped  her  and  cheered  her  till  they  began  to 
swear  he  was  "all  right";  "and  now,"  concluded 
Bill,  "when  The  Pilot  is  in  a  hole  she  wants  to 
help  him  out. ' ' 

"O'  course,"  said  one.  "Right  enough. 
How's  she  going  to  work  it?"  said  another. 

"Well,  he's  dead  set  on  to  buildin*  a  meetin'- 
house,  and  them  fellows  down  Lt  the  Creek  that 
does  the  prayin'  and  such  don't  seem  to  back  him 
up!" 

"Whar's  the  kick,  Bill?" 

"Oh,  they  don't  want  to  go  down  into  their 
clothes  and  put  up  for  it. " 

"How  much?" 


214  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Why,  he  only  asked  'em  for  seven  hundred  the 
hull  outfit,  and  would  give  'em  two  years,  but 
they  bucked — wouldn't  look  at  it." 

[Chorus  of  expletives  descriptive  of  the  char- 
acters and  personal  appearance  and  belongings  of 
the  congregation  of  Swan  Creek.] 

"Were  you  there,  Bill?     What  did  you  do?" 

"Oh,"  said  Bill,  modestly,  "I  didn't  do  much. 
Gave  'em  a  little  bluff." 

"No!     How?     What?     Goon,  Bill." 

But  Bill  remained  silent,  till  under  strong 
pressure,  and,  as  if  making  a  clean  breast  of 
everything,  he  said: 

"Well,  I  jest  told  'em  that  if  you  boys  made 
such  a  fuss  about  anythin'  like  they  did  about 
their  Gospel  outfit,  an'  I  ain't  sayin'  anythin'  agin 
it,  you'd  put  up  seven  hundred  without  turnin'  a 
hair. ' ' 

"You're  the  stuff,  Bill!  Good  man!  You're 
talkin'  now!  What  did  they  say  to  that,  eh, 
Bill?" 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  slowly,  "they  called  v&\" 

"No!     That  so?    An'  what  did  you  do,  Bill?" 

"Gave  'em  a  dead  straight  bluff!" 

[Yells  of  enthusiastic  approval.  ] 

"Did  they  take  you,  Bill?" 


Bill's  Financing  215 

"Well,  I  reckon  they  did.  The  master,  here, 
put  it  down. ' ' 

Whereupon  I  read  the  terms  of   Bill's  bluff. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  very  hearty  approvals  of 
Bill's  course  in  "not  taking  any  water"  from  that 
variously  characterized  "outfit."  But  the 
responsibility  of  the  situation  began  to  dawn 
upon  them  when  some  one  asked : 

"How  are  you  going  about  it,  Bill?" 

"Well,"  drawled  Bill,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm 
in  his  voice,  "there's  that  pinto." 

"Pinto  be  blanked!"  said  young  Hill.  "Say, 
boys,  is  that  little  girl  going  to  lose  that  one  pony 
of  hers  to  help  out  her  friend  The  Pilot?  Good 
fellow,  too,  he  is!  We  know  he's  the  right  sort. " 

[Chorus  of,  "Not  by  a  long  sight;  not  much; 
we'll  put  up  the  stuff!  Pinto!"] 

"Then,"  went  on  Bill,  even  more  slowly, 
"there's  The  Pilot;  he's  going  for  to  ante  up  a 
month's  pay;  'taint  much,  o'  course — twenty-eight 
a  month  and  grub  himself.  He  might  make  it 
two,"  he  added,  thoughtfully.  But  Bill's  proposal 
was  scorned  with  contemptuous  groans. 
"Twenty-eight  a  month  and  grub  himself  o' 
course  ain't  much  for  a  man  to  save  money  out 
ov  to  eddicate  himself."  Bill  continued,  as  if 


216  The  Sky  Pilot 

thinking  aloud,  "O1  course  he's  got  his  mother 
at  home,  but  she  can't  make  much  more  than  her 
own  livin',  but  she  might  help  him  some." 

This  was  altogether  too  much  for  the  crowd. 
They  consigned  Bill  and  his  plans  to  unutterable 
depths  of  woe. 

"O*  course,"  Bill  explained,  "it's  jest  as  you 
boys  feel  about  it  Mebbe  I  was,  bein'  hot,  a  little 
swift  in  givin*  'em  the  bluff. ' ' 

"Not  much,  you  wasn't!  We'll  see  you  out! 
That's  the  talk!  There's  between  twenty  and 
thirty  of  us  here." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  contribute  thirty  or  forty 
if  need  be,"  said  The  Duke,  who  was  standing 
not  far  off,  "to  assist  in  the  building  of  a  church. 
It  would  be  a  good  thing,  and  I  think  the  parson 
should  be  encouraged.  He's  the  right  sort." 

"I'll  cover  your  thirty,"  said  young  Hill;  and 
so  it  went  from  one  to  another  in  tens  and  fifteens 
and  twenties,  till  within  half  an  hour  I  had 
entered  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  my 
book,  with  Ashley  yet  to  hear  from,  which  meant 
fifty  more.  It  was  Bill's  hour  of  triumph. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  with  solemn  emphasis,  "ye're 
all  white.  But  that  leetle  pale-faced  gel,  that's 
what  I'm  thinkin*  on.  Won't  she  open  them  big 


Bill's  Financing  217 

eyes  ov  hers!     I  cherish  the  opinion  that  this'll 
tickle  her  some." 

The  men  were  greatly  pleased  with  Bill  and 
even  more  pleased  with  themselves.  Bill's  pic- 
ture of  the  "leetle  gel"  and  her  pathetically 
tragic  lot  had  gone  right  to  their  hearts  and,  with 
men  of  that  stamp,  it  was  one  of  their  few  luxu- 
ries to  yield  to  their  generous  impulses.  The  most 
of  them  had  few  opportunities  of  lavishing  love 
and  sympathy  upon  worthy  objects  and.  when  the 
opportunity  came,  all  that  was  best  in  them  clam- 
ored for  expression. 


How  the   Pinto   Sold 


219 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HOW    THE   PINTO    SOLD 

The  glow  of  virtuous  feeling  following  the  per- 
formance of  their  generous  act  prepared  the  men 
for  a  keener  enjoyment  than  usual  of  a  night's 
sport.  They  had  just  begun  to  dispose  them- 
selves in  groups  about  the  fire  for  poker  and 
other  games  when  Hi  rode  up  into  the  light  and 
with  him  a  stranger  on  Gwen's  beautiful  pinto 
pony. 

Hi  was  evidently  half  drunk  and,  as  he  swung 
himself  off  his  bronco,  he  saluted  the  company 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  hoped  he  saw  them 
"kickin'." 

Bill,  looking  curiously  at  Hi,  went  up  to  the 
pinto  and,  taking  him  by  the  head,  led  him  up 
into  the  light,  saying: 

"See  here,  boys,  there's  that  pinto  of  mine  I 
was  telling  you  about;  no  flies  on  him,  eh?" 

"Hold  on  there!  Excuse  me!"  said  the 
stranger,  "this  here  hoss  belongs  to  me,  if  paid- 
down  money  means  anything  in  this  country." 


222  The  Sky  Pilot 

"The  country's  all  right,"  said  Bill  in  an 
ominously  quiet  voice,  "but  this  here  pinto 's 
another  transaction,  I  reckon. ' ' 

"The  hoss  is  mine,  I  say,  and  what's  more,  I'm 
goin'  to  hold  him, ' '  said  the  stranger  in  a  loud  voice. 

The  men  began  to  crowd  around  with  faces 
growing  hard.  It  was  dangerous  in  that  country 
to  play  fast  and  loose  with  horses. 

' '  Look  a-hyar,  mates, ' '  said  the  stranger,  with  a 
Yankee  drawl,  "I  ain't  no  hoss  thief,  and  if  I 
hain't  bought  this  hoss  reg'lar  and  paid  down 
good  money  then  it  ain't  mine — if  I  have  it  is. 
That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

At  this  Hi  pulled  himself  together,  and  in  a 
half-drunken  tone  declared  that  the  stranger  was 
all  right,  and  that  he  had  bought  the  horse  fair 
and  square,  and  "there's  your  dust,"  said  Hi, 
handing  a  roll  to  Bill.  But  with  a  quick  move- 
ment Bill  caught  the  stranger  by  the  leg,  and, 
before  a  word  could  be  said,  he  was  lying  flat  on 
the  ground. 

"You  git  off  that  pony,"  said  Bill,  "till  this 
thing  is  settled." 

There  was  something  so  terrible  in  Bill's  man- 
ner that  the  man  contented  himself  with  bluster- 
ing and  swearing,  while  Bill,  turning  to  Hi,  said: 


How  the  Pinto  Sold  223 

"Did  you  sell  this  pinto  to  him?" 

Hi  was  able  to  acknowledge  that,  being  offered 
a  good  price,  and  knowing  that  his  partner  was 
always  ready  for  a  deal,  he  had  transferred  the 
pinto  to  the  stranger  for  forty  dollars. 

Bill  was  in  distress,  deep  and  poignant 
"  'Taint  the  horse,  but  the  leetle  gel,"  he 
explained;  but  his  partner's  bargain  was  his,  and 
wrathful  as  he  was,  he  refused  to  attempt  to  break 
the  bargain. 

At  this  moment  the  Hon.  Fred,  noting  the 
unusual  excitement  about  the  fire,  came  up, 
followed  at  a  little  distance  by  his  wife  and  The 
Duke. 

"Perhaps  he'll  sell,"  he  suggested. 

"No,"  said  Bill  sullenly,  "he's  a  mean  cuss." 

"I  know  him,"  said  the  Hon.  Fred,  "let  me  try 
him."  But  the  stranger  declared  the  pinto  suited 
him  down  to  the  ground  and  he  wouldn't  take 
twice  his  money  for  him. 

"Why,"  he  protested,  "that  there's  what  I  call 
an  unusual  hoss,  and  down  in  Montana  for  a  lady 
he'd  fetch  up  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars."  In 
vain  they  haggled  and  bargained;  the  man  was 
immovable.  Eighty  dollars  he  wouldn't  look  at, 
a  hundred  hardly  made  him  hesitate.  At  this 


224  The  Sky  Pilot 

point  Lady  Charlotte  came  down  into  the  light 
and  stood  by  her  husband,  who  explained  the  cir- 
cumstances to  her.  She  had  already  heard  Bill's 
description  of  G wen's  accident  and  of  her  part  in 
the  church-building  schemes.  There  was  silence 
for  a  few  moments  as  she  stood  looking  at  the 
beautiful  pony. 

"What  a  shame  the  poor  child  should  have  to 
part  with  the  dear  little  creature!"  she  said  in  a 
low  tone  to  her  husband.  Then,  turning  to  the 
stranger,  she  said  in  clear,  sweet  tones: 

"What  do  you  ask  for  him?"  He  hesitated  and 
then  said,  lifting  his  hat  awkwardly  in  salute :  "I 
was  just  remarking  how  that  pinto  would  fetch 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  down  into  Montana. 
But  seein'  as  a  lady  is  enquirin',  I'll  put  him 
down  to  one  hundred  and  twenty-five." 

"Too  much,"  she  said  promptly,  "far  too 
much,  is  it  not,  Bill?" 

"Well,"  drawled  Bill,  "if  'twere  a  fellar  as  was 
used  to  ladies  he'd  offer  you  the  pinto,  but  he's 
too  pizen  mean  even  to  come  down  to  the  even 
hundred. ' ' 

The  Yankee  took  him  up  quickly.  "Wall,  if  I 
were  so  blanked — pardon,  madam" — taking  off 
his  hat,  "used  to  ladies  as  some  folks  would  like 


How  the  Pinto  Sold  225 

to  think  themselves,  I'd  buy  that  there  pinto  and 
make  a  present  of  it  to  this  here  lady  as  stands 
before  me. ' '  Bill  twisted  uneasily. 

"But  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  mean;  I'll  put  that 
pinto  in  for  the  even  money  for  the  lady  if  any 
man  cares  to  put  up  the  stuff. ' ' 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Hon.  Fred  with  a 
bow,  "we  cannot  well  let  that  gage  lie."  She 
turned  and  smiled  at  him  and  the  pinto  was 
transferred  to  the  Ashley  stables,  to  Bill's  out- 
spoken delight,  who  declared  he  "couldn't  have 
faced  the  music  if  that  there  pinto  had  gone  across 
the  line."  I  confess,  however,  I  was  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  Hi  escaped  his 
wrath,  and  my  surprise  was  in  no  way  lessened 
when  I  saw,  later  in  the  evening,  the  two  partners 
with  the  stranger  taking  a  quiet  drink  out  of  the 
same  bottle  with  evident  mutual  admiration  and 
delight. 

"You're  an  Ai  corker,  you  are!  I'll  be 
blanked  if  you  ain't  a  bird — a  singin'  bird — a 
reg'lar  canary,"  I  heard  Hi  say  to  Bill. 

But  Bill's  only  reply  was  a  long,  slow  wink 
which  passed  into  a  frown  as  he  caught  my  eye. 
My  suspicion  was  aroused  that  the  sale  of  the 
pinto  might  bear  investigation,  and  this  suspicion 


226  The  Sky  Pilot 

was  deepened  when  Gwen  next  week  gave  me  a 
rapturous  account  of  how  splendidly  Bill  had  dis- 
posed of  the  pinto,  showing  me  bills  for  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars !  To  my  look  of  amazement, 
Gwen  replied: 

"You  see,  he  must  have  got  them  bidding 
against  each  other,  and  besides,  Bill  says  pintos 
are  going  up. ' ' 

Light  began  to  dawn  upon  me,  but  I  only 
answered  that  I  knew  they  had  risen  very  con- 
siderably in  value  within  a  month.  The  extra 
fifty  was  Bill's. 

I  was  not  present  to  witness  the  finishing  of 
Bill's  bluff,  but  was  told  that  when  Bill  made  his 
way  through  the  crowded  aisle  and  laid  his  five 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  on  the  schoolhouse 
desk  the  look  of  disgust,  surprise  and  finally  of 
pleasure  on  Robbie's  face,  was  worth  a  hundred 
more.  But  Robbie  was  ready  and  put  down  his 
two  hundred  with  the  single  remark : 

"Ay!  ye 're  no  as  daft  as  ye  look,"  mid  roars  of 
laughter  from  all. 

Then  The  Pilot,  with  eyes  and  face  shining,  rose 
and  thanked  them  all ;  but  when  he  told  of  how 
the  little  girl  in  her  lonely  shack  in  the  hills 
thought  so  much  of  the  church  that  she  gave  up 


How  the  Pinto  Sold  227 

for  it  her  beloved  pony,  her  one  possession,  the 
light  from  his  eyes  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  all. 

But  the  men  from  the  ranches  who  could 
understand  the  full  meaning  of  her  sacrifice  and 
who  also  could  realize  the  full  measure  of  her 
calamity,  were  stirred  to  their  hearts'  depths,  so 
that  when  Bill  remarked  in  a  very  distinct  under- 
tone, "I  cherish  the  opinion  that  this  here  Gospel 
shop  wouldn't  be  materializin'  into  its  present 
shape  but  for  that  leetle  gel, "  there  rose  growls 
of  approval  in  a  variety  of  tones  and  expletives 
that  left  no  doubt  that  his  opinion  was  that 
of  all. 

But  though  The  Pilot  never  could  quite  get  at 
the  true  inwardness  of  Bill's  measures  and 
methods,  and  was  doubtless  all  the  more  comfort- 
able in  mind  for  that,  he  had  no  doubt  that  while 
Gwen's  influence  was  the  moving  spring  of  action, 
Bill's  bluff  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the 
"materializin'  "  of  the  first  church  in  Swan 
Creek,  and  in  this  conviction,  I  share. 

Whether  the  Hon.  Fred  ever  understood  the 
peculiar  style  of  Bill's  financing,  I  do  not  quite 
know.  But  if  he  ever  did  come  to  know,  he  was 
far  too  much  of  a  man  to  make  a  fuss.  Besides, 
I  fancy  the  smile  on  his  lady's  face  was  worth 


228  The  Sky  Pilot 

some  large  amount  to  him.  At  least,  so  the  look 
of  proud  and  fond  love  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  say 
as  he  turned  away  with  her  from  the  fire  the 
night  of  the  pinto' s  sale. 


The  Lady  Charlotte 


229 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

THE    LADY    CHARLOTTE 

The  night  of  the  pinto's  sale  was  a  night 
momentous  to  Gwen,  for  then  it  was  that  the 
Lady  Charlotte's  interest  in  her  began.  Momen- 
tous, too,  to  the  Lady  Charlotte,  for  it  was  that 
night  that  brought  The  Pilot  into  her  life 

I  had  turned  back  to  the  fire  around  which  the 
men  had  fallen  into  groups  prepared  to  have  an 
hour's  solid  delight,  for  the  scene  was  full  of  wild 
and  picturesque  beauty  to  me,  when  The  Duke 
came  and  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"Lady  Charlotte  would  like  to  see  you." 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"She  wants  to  hear  about  this  affair  of  Bill's." 

We  went  through  the  kitchen  into  the  large 
dining-room,  at  one  end  of  which  was  a  stone 
chimney  and  fireplace.  Lady  Charlotte  had 
declared  that  she  did  not  much  care  what  kind  of 
a  house  the  Hon.  Fred  would  build  for  her,  but 
that  she  must  have  a  fireplace. 

She  was  very  beautiful — tall,    slight  and  grace- 


232  The  Sky  Pilot 

ful  in  every  line.  There  was  a  reserve  and  a 
grand  air  in  her  bearing  that  put  people  in  awe 
of  her.  This  awe  I  shared ;  but  as  I  entered  the 
room  she  welcomed  me  with  such  kindly  grace 
that  I  felt  quite  at  ease  in  a  moment. 

"Come  and  sit  by  me,"  she  said,  drawing  an 
armchair  into  the  circle  about  the  fire.  "I  want 
you  to  tell  us  all  about  a  great  many  things. ' ' 

"You  see    what  you're    in  for,   Connor,"  said 

her  husband.  "It  is  a  serious  business  when  my 
\ 

lady  takes  one  in  hand. " 

"As  he  knows  to  his  cost,"  she  said,  smiling 
and  shaking  her  head  at  her  husband. 

"So  I  can  testify,"  put  in  The  Duke. 

"Ah!  I  can't  do  anything  with  you,"  she 
replied,  turning  to  him. 

"Your  most  abject  slave, "  he  replied  with  a  pro- 
found bow. 

"If  you  only  were,"  smiling  at  him — a  little 
sadly,  I  thought— "I'd  keep  you  out  of  all  sorts  of 
mischief." 

"Quite  true,  Duke,"  said  her  husband,  "just 
look  at  me." 

The  Duke  gazed  at  him  a  moment  or  two. 
"Wonderful!"  he  murmured,  "what  a  deliver- 
ance!" 


The  Lady  Charlotte  233 

"Nonsense!"  broke  in  Lady  Charlotte.  "You 
are  turning  my  mind  away  from  my  purpose. ' ' 

"Is  it  possible,  do  you  think?"  said  The  Duke  to 
her  husband. 

"Not  in  the  very  least,"  he  replied,  "if  my 
experience  goes  for  anything." 

But  Lady  Charlotte  turned  her  back  upon  them 
and  said  to  me : 

"Now,  tell  me  first  about  Bill's  encounter  with 
that  funny  little  Scotchman." 

Then  I  told  her  the  story  of  Bill's  bluff  in  my 
best  style,  imitating,  as  I  have  some  small  skill  in 
doing,  the  manner  and  speech  of  the  various 
actors  in  the  scene.  She  was  greatly  amused 
and  interested. 

"And  Bill  has  really  got  his  share  ready, "  she 
cried.  "It  is  very  clever  of  him. " 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "but  Bill  is  only  the  very 
humble  instrument,  the  moving  spirit  is  be- 
hind." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  mean  the  little  girl  that  owns  the 
pony,"  she  said.  "That's  another  thing  you 
must  tell  me  about." 

"The  Duke  knows  more  than  I,"  I  replied, 
shifting  the  burden  to  him;  "my  acquaintance  is 
only  of  yesterday ;  his  is  lifelong. ' ' 


234  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Why  have  you  never  told  me  of  her?"  she 

demanded,  turning  to  the  Duke. 

"Haven't  I  told  you  of  the  little  Meredith  girl? 
Surely  I  have, ' '  said  The  Duke,  hesitatingly. 

"Now,  you  know  quite  well  you  have  not,  and 
that  means  you  are  deeply  interested.  Oh,  I 
know  you  well, ' '  she  said,  severely. 

"He  is  the  most  secretive  man,"  she  went  on  to 
me,  "shamefully  and  ungratefully  reserved." 

The  Duke  smiled;  then  said,  lazily:  "Why, 
she's  just  a  child.  Why  should  you  be  interested 
in  her?  No  one  was,"  he  added  sadly,  "till  mis- 
fortune distinguished  her." 

Her  eyes  grew  soft,  and  her  gay  manner 
changed,  and  she  said  to  The  Duke  gently:  "Tell 
me  of  her  now." 

It  was  evidently  an  effort,  but  he  began  his 
story  of  Gwen  from  the  time  he  saw  her  first, 
years  ago,  playing  in  and  out  of  her  father's 
rambling  shack,  shy  and  wild  as  a  young  fox.  As 
he  went  on  with  his  tale,  his  voice  dropped  into  a 
low,  musical  tone,  and  he  seemed  as  if  dreaming 
aloud.  Unconsciously  he  put  into  the  tale  much 
of  himself,  revealing  how  great  an  influence  the 
little  child  had  had  upon  him,  and  how  empty  of 
love  his  life  had  been  in  this  lonely  land.  Lady 


The  Lady  Charlotte  235 

Charlotte  listened  with  face  intent  upon  him,  and 
even  her  bluff  husband  was  conscious  that  some- 
thing more  than  usual  was  happening.  He  had 
never  heard  The  Duke  break  through  his  proud 
reserve  before. 

But  when  The  Duke  told  the  story  of  Gwen's 
awful  fall,  which  he  did  with  great  graphic  power, 
a  little  red  spot  burned  upon  the  Lady  Charlotte's 
pale  cheek,  and,  as  The  Duke  finished  his  tale  with 
the  words,  "It  was  her  last  ride,"  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Duke,  it  is  horrible  to  think  of!  But 
what  splendid  courage!" 

"Great  stuff!  eh,  Duke?"  cried  the  Hon.  Fred, 
kicking  a  burning  log  vigorously. 

But  The  Duke  made  no  reply. 

"How  is  she  now,  Duke?"  said  Lady  Charlotte. 

The  Duke  looked  up  as  from  a  dream.  "Bright 
as  the  morning,"  he  said.  Then,  in  reply  to  Lady 
Charlotte's  look  of  wonder,  he  added: 

"The  Pilot  did  it.  Connor  will  tell  you.  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"Nor  do  I,  either.  But  I  can  tell  you  only 
what  I  saw  and  heard,"  I  answered. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Lady  Charlotte  very  gently. 

Then  I  told  her  how,  one  by  one,  we  had  failed 


236  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  help  her,  and  how  The  Pilot  had  ridden  up 
that  morning  through  the  canyon,  and  how  he 
had  brought  the  first  light  and  peace  to  her  by  his 
marvellous  pictures  of  the  flowers  and  ferns  and 
trees  and  all  the  wonderful  mysteries  of  that  won- 
derful canyon. 

"But  that  wasn't  all,"  said  the  Duke  quickly, 
as  I  stopped. 

"No,"  I  said  slowly,  "that  was  not  all  by  along 
way;  but  the  rest  I  don't  understand.  That's 
The  Pilot's  secret." 

"Tell  me  what  he  did,"  said  Lady  Charlotte, 
softly,  once  more.  "I  want  to  know." 

"I  don't  think  I  can,"  I  replied.  "He  simply 
read  out  of  the  Scriptures  to  her  and  talked." 

Lady  Charlotte  looked  disappointed. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said. 

"It  is  quite  enough  for  Owen,"  said  The  Duke 
confidently,  "for  there  she  lies,  often  suffering, 
always  longing  for  the  hills  and  the  free  air,  but 
with  her  face  radiant  as  the  flowers  of  the  beloved 
canyon." 

"I  must  see  her,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  "and 
that  wonderful  Pilot." 

"You'll  be  disappointed  in  him,"  said  The 
Duke. 


The  Lady  Charlotte  237 

"Oh,  I've  see  him  and  heard  him,  but  I  don't 
know  him,"  she  replied.  "There  must  be  some- 
thing in  him  that  one  does  not  see  at  first." 

"So  I  have  discovered,"  said  The  Duke,  and 
with  that  the  subject  was  dropped,  but  not  before 
the  Lady  Charlotte  made  me  promise  to  take  her 
to  Gwen,  The  Duke  being  strangely  unwilling  to 
do  this  for  her. 

"You'll  be  disappointed,"  he  said.  "She  is 
only  a  simple  little  child." 

But  Lady  Charlotte  thought  differently,  and, 
having  made  up  her  mind  upon  the  matter,  there 
was  nothing  for  it,  as  her  husband  said,  but  "for 
all  hands  to  surrender  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

And  so  the  Lady  Charlotte  had  her  way,  which, 
as  it  turned  out,  was  much  the  wisest  and  best. 


Through   Gwen's  Window 


239 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THROUGH    OWEN'S   WINDOW 

When  I  told  The  Pilot  of  Lady  Charlotte's  pur- 
pose to  visit  Gwen,  he  was  not  too  well  pleased. 

"What  does  she  want  with  Gwen?"  he  said 
impatiently.  "She  will  just  put  notions  into  her 
head  and  make  the  child  discontented." 

"Why  should  she?"  said  I. 

"She  won't  mean  to,  but  she  belongs  to  another 
world,  and  Gwen  cannot  talk  to  her  without  get- 
ting glimpses  of  a  life  that  will  make  her  long  for 
what  she  can  never  have,"  said  The  Pilot. 

"But  suppose  it  is  not  idle  curiosity  in  Lady 
Charlotte,"  I  suggested. 

"I  don't  say  it  is  quite  that,"  he  answered, 
"but  these  people  love  a  sensation." 

"I  don't  think  you  know  Lady  Charlotte,"  I 
replied.  "I  hardly  think  from  her  tone  the 
other  night  that  she  is  a  sensation  hunter." 

"At  any  rate,"  he  answered,  decidedly,  "she  is 
not  to  worry  poor  Gwen." 


242  The  Sky  Pilot 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  his  attitude,  and  felt 
that  he  was  unfair  to  Lady  Charlotte,  but  I  for- 
bore to  argue  with  him  on  the  matter.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  any  person  or  thing  threaten- 
ing the  peace  of  his  beloved  Gwen. 

The  very  first  Saturday  after  my  promise  was 
given  we  were  surprised  to  see  Lady  Charlotte 
ride  up  to  the  door  of  our  shack  in  the  early 
morning. 

"You  see,  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  off,"  she 
said,  as  I  greeted  her.  "And  the  day  is  so  very 
fine  for  a  ride." 

I  hastened  to  apologize  for  not  going  to  her, 
and  then  to  get  out  of  my  difficulty,  rather  meanly 
turned  toward  The  Pilot,  and  said: 

"The  Pilot  doesn't  approve  of  our  visit." 

"And  why  not,  may  I  ask?"  said  Lady  Char- 
lotte, lifting  her  eyebrows. 

The  Pilot's  face  burned,  partly  with  wrath  at 
me,  and  partly  with  embarrassment;  for  Lady 
Charlotte  had  put  on  her  grand  air.  But  he  stood 
to  his  guns. 

"I  was  saying,  Lady  Charlotte,"  he  said,  look- 
ing straight  into  her  eyes,  "that  you  and  Gwen 
have  little  in  common — and — and — "  he  hesi- 
tated. 


Through  Gwen's  Window  243 

"Little  in  common!"  said  Lady  Charlotte 
quietly.  "She  has  suffered  greatly." 

The  Pilot  was  quick  to  catch  the  note  of  sad- 
ness in  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  wondering  at  her  tone,  "she 
has  suffered  greatly. ' ' 

"And,"  continued  Lady  Charlotte,  "she  is 
bright  as  the  morning,  The  Duke  says."  There 
was  a  look  of  pain  in  her  face. 

The  Pilot's  face  lit  up,  and  he  came  nearer  and 
laid  his  hand  caressingly  upon  her  beautiful 
horse. 

"Yes,  thank  God!"  he  said  quickly,  "bright  as 
the  morning." 

"How  can  that  be?"  she  asked,  looking  down 
into  his  face.  "Perhaps  she  would  tell  me." 

"Lady  Charlotte,"  said  The  Pilot  with  a  sudden 
flush,  "I  must  ask  your  pardon.  I  was  wrong. 
I  thought  you — "he  paused;  "but  go  to  Gwen, 
she  will  tell  you,  and  you  will  do  her  good." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  putting  out 
her  hand,  "and  perhaps  you  will  come  and  see 
me,  too." 

The  Pilot  promised  and  stood  looking  after  us 
as  we  rode  up  the  trail. 

"There  is  something  more  in  your  Pilot  than  at 


244  The  Sky  Pilot 

first  appears,"  she  said.  "The  Duke  was  quite 
right." 

"He  is  a  great  man,"  I  said  with  enthusiasm; 
"tender  as  a  woman  and  with  the  heart  of  a 
hero." 

"You  and  Bill  and  The  Duke  seem  to  agree 
about  him,"  she  said,  smiling. 

Then  I  told  her  tales  of  The  Pilot,  and  of  his 
ways  with  the  men,  till  her  blue  eyes  grew  bright 
and  her  beautiful  face  lost  its  proud  look. 

"It  is  perfectly  amazing,"  I  said,  finishing  my 
story,  "how  these  devil-may-care  rough  fellows 
respect  him,  and  come  to  him  in  all  sorts  of 
trouble.  I  can't  understand  it,  and  yet  he  is  just 
a  boy. ' ' 

"No,  not  amazing,"  said  Lady  Charlotte 
slowly.  "I  think  I  understand  it.  He  has  a  true 
man's  heart,  and  holds  a  great  purpose  in  it. 
I've  seen  men  like  that.  Not  clergymen,  I  mean, 
but  men  with  a  great  purpose." 

Then,  after  a  moment's  thought,  she  added: 
' '  But  you  ought  to  care  for  him  better.  He  does 
not  look  strong." 

"Strong!"  I  exclaimed  quickly,  with  a  queer 
feeling  of  resentment  at  my  heart.  "He  can  do 
as  much  riding  as  any  of  us." 


Through  Gwen's  Window  245 

"Still,"  she  replied,  "there's  something  in  his 
face  that  would  make  his  mother  anxious."  In 
spite  of  my  repudiation  of  her  suggestion,  I  found 
myself  for  the  next  few  minutes  thinking  of  how 
he  would  come  exhausted  and  faint  from  his  long 
rides,  and  I  resolved  that  he  must  have  a  rest  and 
change. 

It  was  one  of  those  early  September  days,  the 
best  of  all  in  the  western  country,  when  the  light 
falls  less  fiercely  through  a  soft  haze  that  seems 
to  fill  the  air  about  you,  and  that  grows  into 
purple  on  the  far  hilltops.  By  the  time  we 
reached  the  canyon  the  sun  was  riding  high  and 
pouring  its  rays  full  into  all  the  deep  nooks, 
where  the  shadows  mostly  lay. 

There  were  no  shadows  to-day,  except  such  as 
the  trees  cast  upon  the  green  moss  beds  and  the 
black  rocks.  The  tops  of  the  tall  elms  were  sere 
and  rusty,  but  the  leaves  of  the  rugged  oaks  that 
fringed  the  canyon's  lips  shone  a  rich  and  glossy 
brown.  All  down  the  sides  the  poplars  and  deli- 
cate birches,  pale  yellow,  but  sometimes  flushing 
into  orange  and  red,  stood  shimmering  in  the 
golden  light,  while  here  and  there  the  broad- 
spreading,  feathery  sumachs  made  great  splashes 
of  brilliant  crimson  upon  the  yellow  and  gold. 


246  The  Sky  Pilot 

Down  in  the  bottom  stood  the  cedars  and  the 
balsams,  still  green.  We  stood  some  moments 
silently  gazing  into  this  tangle  of  interlacing 
boughs  and  shimmering  leaves,  all  glowing  in 
yellow  light,  then  Lady  Charlotte  broke  the 
silence  in  tones  soft  and  reverent  as  if  she  stood 
in  a  great  cathedral. 

"And  this  is  G wen's  canyon!" 

"Yes,  but  she  never  sees  it  now,"  I  said,  for  I 
could  never  ride  through  without  thinking  of  the 
child  to  whose  heart  this  was  so  dear,  but  whose 
eyes  never  rested  upon  it.  Lady  Charlotte  made 
no  reply,  and  we  took  the  trail  that  wound  down 
into  this  maze  of  mingling  colors  and  lights  and 
shadows.  Everywhere  lay  the  fallen  leaves, 
brown  and  yellow  and  gold ; — everywhere  on  our 
trail,  on  the  green  mosses  and  among  the  dead 
ferns.  And  as  we  rode,  leaves  fluttered  down 
from  the  trees  above  silently  through  the  tangled 
boughs,  and  lay  with  the  others  on  moss  and  rock 
and  beaten  trail. 

The  flowers  were  all  gone;  but  the  Little  Swan 
sang  as  ever  its  many-voiced  song,  as  it  flowed  in 
pools  and  eddies  and  cascades,  with  here  and 
there  a  golden  leaf  upon  its  black  waters.  Ah! 
how  often  in  weary,  dusty  days  these  sights  and 


Through  G wen's  Window  247 

sounds  and  silences  have  come  to  me  and  brought 
my  heart  rest ! 

As  we  began  to  climb  up  into  the  open,  I 
glanced  at  my  companion's  face.  The  canyon 
had  done  its  work  with  her  as  with  all  who  loved 
it.  The  touch  of  pride  that  was  the  habit  of  her 
face  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  rested  the  earnest 
wonder  of  a  little  child,  while  in  her  eyes  lay  the 
canyon's  tender  glow.  And  with  this  face  she 
looked  in  upon  Gwen. 

And  Gwen,  who  had  been  waiting  for  her, 
forgot  all  her  nervous  fear,  and  with  hands  out- 
stretched, cried  out  in  welcome": 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  You've  seen  it  and  I 
know  you  love  it!  My  canyon,  you  know!"  she 
went  on,  answering  Lady  Charlotte's  mystified 
look. 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  bend- 
ing over  the  pale  face  with  its  halo  of  golden 
hair,  "I  love  it."  But  she  could  get  no  further, 
for  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Gwen  gazed  up 
into  the  beautiful  face,  wondering  at  her  silence, 
and  then  said  gently: 

"Tell  me  how  it  looks  to-day!  The  Pilot 
always  shows  it  to  me.  Do  you  know,"  she 
added,  thoughtfully,  "The  Pilot  looks  like  it  him- 


248  The  Sky  Pilot 

self.  He  makes  me  think  of  it,  and — and — "  she 
went  on  shyly,  "you  do,  too." 

By  this  time  Lady  Charlotte  was  kneeling  by 
the  couch,  smoothing  the  beautiful  hair  and  gently 
touching  the  face  so  pale  and  lined  with  pain. 

"That  is  a  great  honor,  truly,"  she  said 
brightly  through  her  tears — "to  be  like  your  can* 
yon  and  like  your  Pilot,  too." 

Gwen  nodded,  but  she  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"Tell  me  how  it  looks  to-day,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  see  it.  Oh,  I  want  to  see  it!" 

Lady  Charlotte  was  greatly  moved  by  the 
yearning  in  the  voice,  but,  controlling  herself,  she 
said  gaily: 

"Oh,  I  can't  show  it  to  you  as  your  Pilot  can, 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  saw." 

"Turn  me  where  I  can  see,"  said  Gwen  to  me, 
and  I  wheeled  her  toward  the  window  and  raised 
her  up  so  that  she  could  look  down  the  trail 
toward  the  canyon's  mouth. 

"Now,"  she  said,  after  the  pain  of  the  lifting 
had  passed,  "tell  me,  please." 

Then  Lady  Charlotte  set  the  canyon  before  her 
in  rich  and  radiant  coloring,  while  Gwen  listened, 
gazing  down  upon  the  trail  to  where  the  elm  tops 
could  be  seen,  rusty  and  sere. 


Through  Gwen's  Window  249 

"Oh,  it  is  lovely!"  said  Gwen,  "and  I  see  it  so 
well.  It  is  all  there  before  me  when  I  look 
through  my  window." 

But  Lady  Charlotte  looked  at  her,  wondering  to 
see  her  bright  smile,  and  at  last  she  could  not 
help  the  question: 

"But  don't  you  weary  to  see  it  with  your  own 
eyes?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gwen  gently,  "often  I  want  and 
want  it,  oh,  so  much!" 

"And  then,  Gwen,  dear,  how  can  you  bear  it?" 
Her  voice  was  eager  and  earnest.  "Tell  me, 
Gwen.  I  have  heard  all  about  your  canyon 
flowers,  but  I  can't  understand  how  the  fretting 
and  the  pain  went  away." 

Gwen  looked  at  her  first  in  amazement,  and 
then  in  dawning  understanding. 

"Have  you  a  canyon,  too?"  she  asked,  gravely. 

Lady  Charlotte  paused  a  moment,  then  nodded. 
It  did  appear  strange  to  me  that  she  should  break 
down  her  proud  reserve  and  open  her  heart  to 
this  child. 

"And  there  are  no  flowers,  Gwen,  not  one," 
she  said  rather  bitterly,  "nor  sun  nor  seeds  nor 
soil,  I  fear." 

"Oh,  if  The  Pilot  were  here,  he  would  tell  you." 


2$o  The  Sky  Pilot 

At  this  point,  feeling  that  they  would  rather  be 
alone,  I  excused  myself  on  the  pretext  of  looking 
after  the  horses. 

What  they  talked  of  during  the  next  hour  I 
never  knew,  but  when  I  returned  to  the  room 
Lady  Charlotte  was  reading  slowly  and  with  per- 
plexed face  to  Gwen  out  of  her  mother's  Bible  the 
words  "for  the  suffering  of  death,  crowned  with 
glory  and  honor." 

"You  see  even  for  Him,  suffering,"  Gwen  said 
eagerly,  "but  I  can't  explain.  The  Pilot  will 
make  it  clear."  Then  the  talk  ended. 

We  had  lunch  with  Gwen — bannocks  and  fresh 
sweet  milk  and  blueberries — and  after  an  hour  of 
gay  fun  we  came  away. 

Lady  Charlotte  kissed  her  tenderly  as  she  bade 
Gwen  good-by. 

"You  must  let  me  come  again  and  sit  at  your 
window, "  she  said,  smiling  down  upon  the  wan  face. 

"Oh,  I  shall  watch  for  you.  How  good  that 
will  be!"  cried  Gwen,  delightedly.  "How  many 
come  to  see  me!  You  make  five."  Then  she 
added,  softly:  "You  will  write  your  letter." 
But  Lady  Charlotte  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  do  that,  I  fear,"  she  said,  "but  I 
shall  think  of  it." 


Through  Gwen's  Window  251 

It  was  a  bright  face  that  looked  out  upon  us 
through  the  open  window  as  we  rode  down  the 
trail.  Just  before  we  took  the  dip  into  the  can- 
yon, I  turned  to  wave  my  hand. 

"Gwen's  friends  always  wave  from  here,"  I 
said,  wheeling  my  bronco. 

Again  and  again  Lady  Charlotte  waved  her 
handkerchief. 

"How  beautiful,  but  how  wonderful!"  she  said 
as  if  to  herself.  "Truly,  her  canyon  is  full  of 
flowers. ' ' 

"It  is  quite  beyond  me,"  I  answered.  "Th? 
Pilot  may  explain." 

"Is  there  anything  your  Pilot  can't  do?"  said 
Lady  Charlotte. 

"Try  him,"  I  ventured. 

"I  mean  to,"  she  replied,  "but  I  cannot  bring 
anyone  to  my  canyon,  I  fear, ' '  she  added  in  an 
uncertain  voice. 

As  I  left  her  at  her  door  she  thanked  me  with 
courteous  grace. 

"You  have  done  a  great  deal  for  me,"  she  said, 
giving  me  her  hand.  "It  has  been  a  beautiful,  a 
wonderful  day." 

When  I  told  the  Pilot  all  the  day's  doings,  he 
burst  out : 


252  The  Sky  Pilot 

"What  a  stupid  and  self-righteous  fool  I  have 
been !  I  never  thought  there  could  be  any  canyon 
in  her  life.  How  short  our  sight  is ! "  and  all  that 
night  I  could  get  almost  no  words  from  him. 

That  was  the  first  of  many  visits  to  Gwen. 
Not  a  week  passed  but  Lady  Charlotte  took  the 
trail  to  the  Meredith  ranch  and  spent  an  hour  at 
Gwen's  window.  Often  The  Pilot  found  her 
there.  But  though  they  were  always  pleasant 
hours  to  him,  he  would  come  home  in  great 
trouble  about  Lady  Charlotte. 

"She  is  perfectly  charming  and  doing  Gwen  no 
end  of  good,  but  she  is  proud  as  an  archangel. 
Has  had  an  awful  break  with  her  family  at  home, 
and  it  is  spoilirig  her  life.  She  told  me  so  much, 
but  she  will  allow  no  one  to  touch  the  affair." 

But  one  day  we  met  her  riding  toward  the  vil- 
lage. As  we  drew  near,  she  drew  up  her  horse 
and  held  up  a  letter. 

"Home!"  she  said.  "I  wrote  it  to-day,  and  I 
must  get  it  off  immediately." 

The  Pilot  understood  her  at  once,  but  he  only 
said: 

"Good!"  but  with  such  emphasis  that  we  both 
laughed. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,"  she  said  with  the  red  begin- 


Through  Gwen's  Window  253 

ning  to  show  in  her  cheek.  "I  have  dropped 
some  seed  into  my  canyon." 

"I  think  I  see  the  flowers  beginning  to  spring," 
said  The  Pilot. 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully  and  replied: 

"I  shall  ride  up  and  sit  with  Gwen  at  her  win- 
dow." 

"Do,"  replied  The  Pilot,  "the  light  is  good 
there.  Wonderful  things  are  to  be  seen  through 
Gwen's  window." 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Charlotte  softly.  "Dear 
Gwen! — but  I  fear  it  is  often  made  bright  with 
tears." 

As  she  spoke  she  wheeled  her  horse  and  can- 
tered off,  for  her  own  tears  were  not  far  away. 
I  followed  her  in  thought  up  the  trail  winding 
through  the  round-topped  hills  and  down  through 
the  golden  lights  of  the  canyon  and  into  Gwen's 
room.  I  could  see  the  pale  face,  with  its  golden 
aureole,  light  up  and  glow,  as  they  sat  before  the 
window  while  Lady  Charlotte  would  tell  her  how 
Gwen's  Canyon  looked  to-day  and  how  in  her  own 
bleak  canyon  there  was  the  sign  of  flowers. 


How  Bill  Favored  "  Home- 
Grown  Industries" 


355 


CHAPTER    XX 

HOW    BILL    FAVORED    "HOME-GROWN    INDUSTRIES" 

The  building  of  the  Swan  Creek  Church  made  a 
sensation  in  the  country,  and  all  the  more  that 
Bronco  Bill  was  in  command. 

"When  I  put  up  money  I  stay  with  the  game," 
he  announced;  and  stay  he  did,  to  the  great 
benefit  of  the  work  and  to  the  delight  of  The 
Pilot,  who  was  wearing  his  life  out  in  trying  to  do 
several  men's  work.  It  was  Bill  that  organized 
the  gangs  for  hauling  stone  for  the  foundation 
and  logs  for  the  walls.  It  was  Bill  that  assigned 
the  various  jobs  to  those  volunteering  service. 
To  Robbie  Muir  and  two  stalwart  Glengarry  men 
from  the  Ottawa  lumber  region,  who  knew  all 
about  the  broadaxe,  he  gave  the  hewing  down  of 
the  logs  that  formed  the  walls.  And  when 
they  had  done,  Bill  declared  they  were  "better 
'an  a  sawmill."  It  was  Bill,  too,  that  did  the 
financing,  and  his  passage  with  Williams,  the 
storekeeper  from  "the  other  side"  who  dealt  in 

357 


258  The  Sky  Pilot 

lumber  and  building  material,  was  such  as  estab- 
lished forever  Bill's  reputation  in  finance. 

With  The  Pilot's  plans  in  his  hands  he  went  to 
Williams,  seizing  a  time  when  the  store  was  full 
of  men  after  their  mail  matter. 

"What  do  you  think  ov  them  plans?"  he  asked 
innocently. 

Williams  was  voluble  with  opinions  and 
criticism  and  suggestions,  all  of  which  were 
gratefully,  even  humbly  received. 

"Kind  ov  hard  to  figger  out  jest  how  much 
lumber  '11  go  into  the  shack,"  said  Bill;  "ye  see 
the  logs  makes  a  difference." 

To  Williams  the  thing  was  simplicity  itself,  and, 
after  some  figuring,  he  handed  Bill  a  complete 
statement  of  the  amount  of  lumber  of  all  kinds 
that  would  be  required. 

"Now,  what  would  that  there  come  to?" 

Williams  named  his  figure,  and  then  Bill 
entered  upon  negotiations. 

"I  aint  no  man  to  beat  down  prices.  No,  sir, 
I  say  give  a  man  his  figger.  Of  course,  this  here 
aint  my  funeral;  besides,  bein'  a  Gospel  shop,  the 
price  naterally  would  be  different."  To  this  the 
boys  all  assented  and  Williams  looked  uncomfort- 
able. 


Bill  Favored   "Home-Grown  Industries"   259 

"In  fact,"  and  Bill  adopted  his  public  tone  to 
Hi's  admiration  and  joy,  "this  here's  a  public 
institooshun"  (this  was  Williams'  own  thunder), 
"condoocin*  to  the  good  of  the  community"  (Hi 
slapped  his  thigh  and  squirted  half  way  across  the 
store  to  signify  his  entire  approval,  "and  I  cherish 
the  opinion" — (delighted  chuckle  from  Hi) — 
"that  public  men  are  interested  in  this  concern." 

"That's  so!  Right  you  are!"  chorused  the 
boys  gravely. 

Williams  agreed,  but  declared  he  had  thought 
of  all  this  in  making  his  calculation.  But  seeing 
it  was  a  church,  and  the  first  church  and  their 
own  church,  he  would  make  a  cut,  which  he  did 
after  more  figuring.  Bill  gravely  took  the  slip  of 
paper  and  put  it  into  his  pocket  without  a  word. 
By  the  end  of  the  week,  having  in  the  meantime 
ridden  into  town  and  interviewed  the  dealers 
there,  Bill  sauntered  into  the  store  and  took  up 
his  position  remote  from  Williams. 

"You'll  be  wanting  that  sheeting,  won't  you, 
next  week,  Bill?"  said  Williams. 

"What  sheetin'  's  that?" 

"Why,  for  the  church.     Aint  the  logs  up?" 

"Yes,  that's  so.  I  was  just  goin'  to  see  the 
boys  here  about  gettin'  it  hauled,"  said  Bill. 


260  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Hauled!"  said  Williams,  in  amazed  indigna- 
tion. "Aint  you  goin*  to  stick  to  your  deal?" 

"I  generally  make  it  my  custom  to  stick  to  my 
deals,"  said  Bill,  looking  straight  at  Williams. 

"Well,  what  about  your  deal  with  me  last 
Monday  night?"  said  Williams,  angrily. 

"Let's  see.  Last  Monday  night,"  said  Bill, 
apparently  thinking  back;  "can't  say  as  I 
remember  any  pertickler  deaL  Any  ov  you 
fellers  remember?" 

No  one  could  recall  any  deal. 

"You  don't  remember  getting  any  paper  from 
me,  I  suppose?"  said  Williams,  sarcastically. 

"Paper!  Why,  I  believe  I've  got  that  there 
paper  onto  my  person  at  this  present  moment," 
said  Bill,  diving  into  his  pocket  and  drawing  out 
Williams'  estimate.  He  spent  a  few  moments  in 
careful  scrutiny. 

"There  ain't  no  deal  onto  this  as  I  can  see," 
said  Bill,  gravely  passing  the  paper  to  the  boys, 
who  each  .scrutinized  it  and  passed  it  on  with  a 
shake  of  the  head  or  a  remark  as  to  the  absence 
of  any  sign  of  a  deaL  Williams  changed  his  tone. 
For  his  part,  he  was  indifferent  in  the  matter. 

Then  Bill  made  him  an  offer. 

"Ov  course,  I  believe  in  supportin*  home-grown 


Bill  Favored   "Home-Grown  Industries"  261 

industries,  and  if  you  can  touch  my  rigger  I'd  be 
uncommonly  glad  to  give  you  the  contract." 

But  Bill's  figure,  which  was  quite  fifty  per  cent, 
lower  than  Williams'  best  offer,  was  rejected  as 
quite  impossible. 

"Thought  I'd  make  you  the  offer,"  said  Bill, 
carelessly,  "seem*  as  you're  institootin'  the  trade 
and  the  boys  here  '11  all  be  buildin'  more  or  less, 
and  I  believe  in  standin'  up  for  local  trades  and 
manufactures."  There  were  nods  of  approval  on 
all  sides,  and  Williams  was  forced  to  accept,  for 
Bill  began  arranging  with  the  Hill  brothers  and 
Hi  to  make  an  early  start  on  Monday.  It  was  a 
great  triumph,  but  Bill  displayed  no  sign  of 
elation ;  he  was  rather  full  of  sympathy  for  Wil- 
liams, and  eager  to  help  on  the  lumber  business 
as  a  local  "institooshun." 

Second  in  command  in  the  church  building 
enterprise  stood  Lady  Charlotte,  and  under  her 
labored  the  Hon.  Fred,  The  Duke,  and,  indeed,  all 
the  company  of  the  Noble  Seven.  Her  home 
became  the  centre  of  a  new  type  of  social  life. 
With  exquisite  tact,  and  much  was  needed  for 
this  kind  of  work,  she  drew  the  bachelors  from 
their  lonely  shacks  and  from  their  wild  carousals, 
and  gave  them  a  taste  of  the  joys  of  a  pure  home- 


262  The  Sky  Pilot 

life,  the  first  they  had  had  since  leaving  the  old 
homes  years  ago.  And  then  she  made  them  work 
for  the  church  with  such  zeal  and  diligence  that 
her  husband  and  The  Duke  declared  that  ranching 
had  become  quite  an  incidental  interest  since  the 
church-building  had  begun.  But  The  Pilot  went 
about  with  a  radiant  look  on  his  pale  face,  while 
Bill  gave  it  forth  as  his  opinion,  "though  she  was 
a  leetle  high  in  the  action,  she  could  hit  an 
uncommon  gait" 

"With  such  energy  did  Bill  push  the  work  of 
construction  that  by  the  first  of  December  the 
church  stood  roofed,  sheeted,  floored  and 
ready  for  windows,  doors  and  ceiling,  so  that 
The  Pilot  began  to  hope  that  he  should  see  the 
desire  of  his  heart  fulfilled — the  church  of  Swan 
Creek  open  for  divine  service  on  Christmas  Day. 

During  these  weeks  there  was  more  than 
church-building  going  on,  for  while  the  days 
were  given  to  the  shaping  of  logs,  and  the  driv- 
ing of  nails  and  the  planing  of  boards,  the  long 
winter  evenings  were  spent  in  talk  around  the 
fire  in  my  shack,  where  The  Pilot  for  some 
months  past  had  made  his  home  and  where  Bill, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  church  building,  had 
come  "to  camp."  Those  were  great  nights  for 


Bill  Favored   "Home-Grown  Industries"  263 

The  Pilot  and  Bill,  and,  indeed,  for  me,  too,  and 
the  other  boys,  who,  after  a  day's  work  on  the 
church,  were  always  brought  in  by  Bill  or  The 
Pilot. 

Great  nights  for  us  all  they  were.  After  bacon 
and  beans  and  bannocks,  and  occasionally 
potatoes,  and  rarely  a  pudding,  with  coffee,  rich 
and  steaming,  to  wash  all  down,  pipes  would  fol- 
low, and  then  yarns  of  adventures,  possible  and 
impossible,  all  exciting  and  wonderful,  and  all 
received  with  the  greatest  credulity. 

If,  however,  the  powers  of  belief  were  put  to 
too  great  a  strain  by  a  tale  of  more  than  ordinary 
marvel,  Bill  would  follow  with  one  of  such  utter 
impossibility  that  the  company  would  feel  that 
the  limit  had  been  reached,  and  the  yarns  would 
cease.  But  after  the  first  week  most  of  the  time 
was  given  to  The  Pilot,  who  would  read  to  us  of 
the  deeds  of  the  mighty  men  of  old,  who  had  made 
and  wrecked  empires. 

What  happy  nights  they  were  to  those  cowboys, 
who  had  been  cast  up  like  driftwood  upon  this 
strange  and  lonely  shore!  Some  of  them  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  have  a  thought 
beyond  the  work  and  sport  of  the  day.  And  the 
world  into  which  The  Pilot  was  ushering  them 


264  The  Sky  Pilot 

was  all  new  and  wonderful  to  them.  Happy 
nights,  without  a  care,  but  that  The  Pilot  would 
not  get  the  ghastly  look  out  of  his  face,  and 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  going  away  till  the  church 
was  built.  And,  indeed,  we  would  all  have  sorely 
missed  him,  and  'so  he  stayed. 


How   Bill  Hit  the  Trail 


265 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HOW   BILL  HIT   THE  TRAIL 

When  "the  crowd"  was  with  us  The  Pilot  read 
us  all  sorts  of  tales  of  adventures  in  all  lands  by 
heroes  of  all  ages,  but  when  we  three  sat  together 
by  our  fire  The  Pilot  would  always  read  us  tales 
of  the  heroes  of  sacred  story,  and  these  delighted 
Bill  more  than  those  of  any  of  the  ancient  empires 
of  the  past.  He  had  his  favorites.  Abraham, 
Moses,  Joshua,  Gideon,  never  failed  to  arouse  his 
admiration.  But  Jacob  was  to  him  always  "a 
mean  cuss,"  and  David  he  could  not  appreciate. 
Most  of  all  he  admired  Moses  and  the  Apostle 
Paul,  whom  he  called  "that  little  chap."  But, 
when  the  reading  was  about  the  One  Great  Man 
that  moved  majestic  amid  the  gospel  stories,  Bill 
made  no  comments;  He  was  too  high  for  approval. 

By  and  by  Bill  began  to  tell  these  tales  to  the 
boys,  and  one  night,  when  a  quiet  mood  had  fallen 
upon  the  company,  Bill  broke  the  silence. 

"Say,  Pilot,  where  was  it  that  the  little  chap 

got  mixed  up  into  that  riot?" 

267 


268  The  Sky  Pilot 

"Riot!"  said  The  Pilot. 

"Yes;  you  remember  when  he  stood  off  the 
whole  gang  from  the  stairs?" 

"Oh,  yes,  at  Jerusalem!" 

"Yes,  that's  the  spot.  Perhaps  you  would 
read  that  to  the  boys.  Good  yarn!  Little  chap, 
you  know,  stood  up  and  told  'em  they  were  all 
sorts  of  blanked  thieves  and  cut-throats,  and 
stood  'em  off.  Played  it  alone,  too." 

Most  of  the  boys  failed  to  recognize  the  story 
in  its  new  dress.  There  was  much  interest. 

"Who  was  the  duck?  Who  was  the  gang? 
What  was  the  row  about?" 

"The  Pilot  here'll  tell  you.  If  you'd  kind  o' 
give  'em  a  lead  before  you  begin,  they'd  catch  on 
to  the  yarn  better."  This  last  to  The  Pilot,  who 
was  preparing  to  read. 

"Well,  it  was  at  Jerusalem,"  began  The  Pilot, 
when  Bill  interrupted: 

"If  I  might  remark,  perhaps  it  might  help  the 
boys  on  to  the  trail  mebbe,  if  you'd  tell  'em  how 
the  little  chap  struck  his  new  gait."  So  he 
designated  the  Apostle's  conversion. 

Then  The  Pilot  introduced  the  Apostle  with 
some  formality  to  the  company,  describing  with 
such  vivid  touches  his  life  and  early  training,  his 


How  Bill  Hit  the  Trail  269 

sudden  wrench  from  all  he  held  dear,  under  the 
stress  of  a  new  conviction,  his  magnificent 
enthusiasm  and  courage,  his  tenderness  and 
patience,  that  I  was  surprised  to  find  myself 
regarding  him  as  a  sort  of  hero,  and  the  boys 
were  all  ready  to  back  him  against  any  odds. 
As  The  Pilot  read  the  story  of  the  Arrest  at 
Jerusalem,  stopping  now  and  then  to  picture  the 
scene,  we  saw  it  all  and  were  in  the  thick  of  it. 
The  raging  crowd  hustling  and  beating  the  life 
out  of  the  brave  little  man,  the  sudden  thrust  of 
the  disciplined  Roman  guard  through  the  mass, 
the  rescue,  the  pause  on  the  stairway,  the  calm 
face  of  the  little  hero  beckoning  for  a  hearing,  the 
quieting  of  the  frantic,  frothing  mob,  the  fearless 
speech — all  passed  before  us.  The  boys  were 
thrilled. 

"Good  stuff,  eh?" 

"Ain't  he  a  daisy?" 

"Daisy!     He's  a  whole  sunflower  patch!" 

"Yes,"  drawled  Bill,  highly  appreciating  their 
marks  of  approval.  "That's  what  I  call  a  par- 
tickler  fine  character  of  a  man.  There  ain't  no 
manner  of  insecks  on  to  him." 

"You  bet!"  said  Hi. 

"I  say,"  broke  in  one  of  the  boys,  who  was  just 


270  The  Sky  Pilot 

emerging  from  the  tenderfoot  stage,   "o*  course 
that's  in  the  Bible,  ain't  it?" 

The  Pilot  assented. 

"Well,  how  do  you  know  it's  true?" 

The  Pilot  was  proceeding  to  elaborate  his  argu- 
ment when  Bill  cut  in  somewhat  more  abruptly 
than  was  his  wont. 

"Look  here,  young  feller!"  Bill's  voice  was 
in  the  tone  of  command.  The  man  looked  as  he 
was  bid.  "How  do  you  know  anything's  true? 
How  do  you  know  The  Pilot  here's  true  when  he 
speaks?  Can't  you  tell  by  the  feel?  You  know 
by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  don't  you?"  Bill 
paused  and  the  young  fellow  agreed  readily. 

"Well,  how  do  you  know  a  blanked  son  of  a  she 
jackass  when  you  see  him?"  Again  Bill  paused. 
There  was  no  reply. 

"Well,"  said  Bill,  resuming  his  deliberate 
drawl.  "I'll  give  you  the  information  without 
extra  charge.  It's  by  the  sound  he  makes  when 
he  opens  his  blanked  jaw." 

"But,"  went  on  the  young  skeptic,  nettled  at  the 
laugh  that  went  round,  "that  don't  prove  anything. 
You  know,"  turning  to  The  Pilot,  "that  there  are 
heaps  of  people  who  don't  believe  the  Bible." 

The  Pilot  nodccr 


How  Bill  Hit  the  Trail  271 

"Some  of  the  smartest,  best-educated  men  are 
agnostics,"  proceeded  the  young  man,  warming 
to  his  theme,  and  failing  to  notice  the  stiffening 
of  Bill's  lank  figure.  "I  don't  know  but  what  I 
am  one  myself. ' ' 

"That  so?"  said  Bill,  with  sudden  interest. 

"I  guess  so,"  was  the  modest  reply. 

''Got  it  bad?"  went  on  Bill,  with  a  note  of 
anxiety  in  his  tone. 

But  the  young  man  turned  to  The  Pilot  and 
tried  to  open  a  fresh  argument. 

"Whatever  he's  got,"  said  Bill  to  the  others,  in 
a  mild  voice,  "it's  spoilin'  his  manners." 

"Yes,"  went  on  Bill,  meditatively,  after  the 
slight  laugh  had  died,  "it's  ruinin'  to  the  judg- 
ment. He  don't  seem  to  know  when  he  inter- 
feres with  the  game.  Pity,  too." 

Still  the  argument  went  on. 

"Seems  as  if  he  ought  to  take  somethin'," 
said  Bill,  in  a  voice  suspiciously  mild.  "What 
would  you  suggest?" 

"A  walk,  mebbe!"  said  Hi,  in  delighted 
expectation. 

"I  hold  the  opinion  that  you  have  mentioned  an 
uncommonly  vallable  remedy,  better'n  Pain 
Killer  almost ' ' 


272  The  Sky  Pilot 

Bill  rose  languidly. 

"I  say,"  he  drawled,  tapping  the  young  fellow, 
"it  appears  to  me  a  little  walk  would  perhaps  be 
good,  mebbe." 

"All  right,  wait  till  I  get  my  cap,"  was  the 
unsuspecting  reply. 

"I  don't  think  perhaps  you  won't  need  it, 
mebbe.  I  cherish  the  opinion  you'll,  perhaps,  be 
warm  enough."  Bill's  voice  had  unconsciously 
passed  into  a  sterner  tone.  Hi  was  on  his  feet 
and  at  the  door. 

"This  here  interview  is  private  and  confi- 
dential, ' '  said  Bill  to  his  partner. 

"Exactly,"  said  Hi,  opening  the  door.  At  this 
the  young  fellow,  who  was  a  strapping  six-footer, 
but  soft  and  flabby,  drew  back  and  refused  to  go. 
He  was  too  late.  Bill's  grip  was  on  his  collar  and 
out  they  went  into  the  snow,  and  behind  them  Hi 
closed  the  door.  In  vain  the  young  fellow 
struggled  to  wrench  himself  free  from  the  hands 
that  had  him  by  the  shoulder  and  the  back  of  the 
neck.  I  took  it  all  in  from  the  window.  He 
might  have  been  a  boy  for  all  the  effect  his 
plungings  had  upon  the  long,  sinewy  arms  that 
gripped  him  so  fiercely.  After  a  minute's  furious 
struggle  the  young  fellow  stood  quiet,  when  Bill 


How   Bill  Hit  the  Trail  273 

suddenly  shifted  his  grip  from  the  shoulder  to  the 
seat  of  his  buckskin  trousers.  Then  began  a 
series  of  evolutions  before  the  house — up  and 
down,  forward  and  back,  which  the  unfortunate 
victim,  with  hands  wildly  clutching  at  empty  air, 
was  quite  powerless  to  resist  till  he  was  brought 
up  panting  and  gasping,  subdued,  to  a  standstill. 

"I'll  larn  you  agnostics  and  several  other 
kinds  of  ticks,"  said  Bill,  in  a  terrible  voice,  his 
drawl  lengthening  perceptibly.  "Come  round 
here,  will  you,  and  shove  your  blanked  second- 
handed  trash  down  our  throats?"  Bill  paused  to 
get  words ;  then,  bursting  out  in  rising  wrath : 

"There  ain't  no  sootable  words  for  sich  con- 
duct. By  the  livin'  Jeminy "  He  suddenly 

swung  his  prisoner  off  his  feet,  lifted  him  bodily, 
and  held  him  over  his  head  at  arm's  length. 
"I've  a  notion  to " 

"Don't!  don't!  for  Heaven's  sake!"  cried  the 
struggling  wretch.  "I'll  stop  it!  I  will!" 

Bill  at  once  lowered  him  and  set  him  on  his 
feet. 

"All  right!  Shake!"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand,  which  the  other  took  with  caution. 

It  was  a  remarkably  sudden  conversion  and 
lasting  in  its  effects.  There  was  no  more 


274  The  Sky  Pilot 

agnosticism  in  the  little  group  that  gathered 
around  The  Pilot  for  the  nightly  reading. 

The  interest  in  the  reading  kept  growing  night 
by  night. 

"Seems  as  if  The  Pilot  was  gittin'  in  his 
work, ' '  said  Bill  to  me ;  and  looking  at  the  grave, 
eager  faces,  I  agreed.  He  was  getting  in  his 
work  with  Bill,  too;  though  perhaps  Bill  did  not 
know  it.  I  remember  one  night,  when  the  others 
had  gone,  The  Pilot  was  reading  to  us  the  Parable 
of  the  Talents,  Bill  was  particularly  interested  in 
the  servant  who  failed  in  his  duty. 

"Ornery  cuss,  eh?"  he  remarked;  "and  gall, 
too,  eh?  Served  him  blamed  well  right,  in  my 
opinion!" 

But  when  the  practical  bearing  of  the  parable 
became  clear  to  him,  after  long  silence,  he  said, 
slowly : 

"Well,  that  there  seems  to  indicate  that  it's 
about  time  for  me  to  get  a  rustle  on."  Then, 
after  another  silence,  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "This 
here  church-buildin'  business  now,  do  you  think 
that'll  perhaps  count,  mebbe?  I  guess  not,  eh? 
'Tain't  much,  o'  course,  anyway."  Poor  Bill,  he 
was  like  a  child,  and  The  Pilot  handled  him  with 
a  mother's  touch. 


How  Bill  Hit  the  Trail  275 

"What  are  you  best  at,  Bill?" 

"Bronco-bustin'  and  cattle,"  said  Bill,  won- 
deringly;  "that's  my  line. " 

"Well,  Bill,  ray  line  is  preaching  just  now,  and 
piloting,  you  know."  The  Pilot's  smile  was  like 
a  sunbeam  on  a  rainy  day,  for  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes  and  voice.  "And  we  have  just  got  to 
be  faithful.  You  see  what  He  says:  'Well  done, 
good  and  faitJiful  servant.  Thou  hast  been  faith- 
ful: " 

Bill  was  puzzled. 

"Faithful!"  he  repeated.  "Does  that  mean 
with  the  cattle,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  that's  just  it,  Bill,  and  with  everything 
else  that  comes  your  way." 

And  Bill  never  forgot  that  lesson,  for  I  heard 
him,  with  a  kind  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  giving  it  to 
Hi  as  a  great  find.  "Now,  I  call  that  a  fair  deal," 
he  said  to  his  friend;  "gives  every  man  a  show. 
No  cards  up  the  sleeve." 

"That's  so,"  was  Hi's  thoughtful  reply;  "dis- 
tributes the  trumps." 

Somehow  Bill  came  to  be  regarded  as  an 
authority  upon  questions  of  religion  and  morals. 
No  one  ever  accused  him  of  "gettin*  religion." 
He  went  about  his  work  in  his  slow,  quiet  way. 


2/6  The  Sky  Pilot 

but  he  was  always  sharing  his  discoveries  with 
"the  boys."  And  if  anyone  puzzled  him  with 
subtleties  he  never  rested  till  he  had  him  face  to 
face  with  The  Pilot.  And  so  it  came  that  these 
two  drew  to  each  other  with  more  than  brotherly 
affection.  When  Bill  got  into  difficulty  with 
problems  that  have  vexed  the  souls  of  men  far 
wiser  than  he,  The  Pilot  would  either  disentangle 
the  knots  or  would  turn  his  mind  to  the  verities 
that  stood  out  sure  and  clear,  and  Bill  would  be 
content. 

"That's  good  enough  for  me,"  he  would  say, 
and  his  heart  would  be  at  rest. 


How  the  Swan   Creek   Church 
was  Opened 


27? 


CHAPTER    XXII 


HOW  THE  SWAN  CREEK  CHURCH  WAS  OPENED 

When,  near  the  end  of  the  year,  The  Pilot  fell 
sick,  Bill  nursed  him  like  a  mother  and  sent  him 
off  for  a  rest  and  change  to  Gwen,  forbidding  him 
to  return  till  the  church  was  finished  and  visiting 
him  twice  a  week.  The  love  between  the  two 
was  most  beautiful,  and,  when  I  find  my  heart 
grow  hard  and  unbelieving  in  men  and  things,  I 
let  my  mind  wander  back  to  a  scene  that  I  came 
upon  in  front  of  Owen's  house.  These  two  were 
standing  alone  in  the  clear  moonlight,  Bill  with 
his  hand  upon  The  Pilot's  shoulder,  and  The 
Pilot  with  his  arm  around  Bill's  neck. 

"Dear  old  Bill,"  The  Pilot  was  saying,  "dear 
old  Bill,"  and  the  voice 'was  breaking  into  a  sob. 
And  Bill,  standing  stiff  and  straight,  looked  up  at 
the  stars,  coughed  and  swallowed  hard  for  some 
moments,  and  said,  in  a  queer,  croaky  voice: 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  a  Chinook  would  blow 
up." 

"Chinook?"  laughed  The  Pilot,  with  a  catch  in 
279 


280  The  Sky  Pilot 

his  voice.  "You  dear  old  humbug,"  and  he  stood 
watching  till  the  lank  form  swayed  down  into  the 
canyon. 

The  day  of  the  church  opening  came,  as  all 
days,  however  long  waited  for,  will  come — a 
bright,  beautiful  Christmas  Day.  The  air  wag 
still  and  full  of  frosty  light,  as  if  arrested 
by  a  voice  of  command,  waiting  the  word  to 
move.  The  hills  lay  under  their  dazzling  cover- 
lets, asleep.  Back  of  all,  the  great  peaks  lifted 
majestic  heads  out  of  the  dark  forests  and  gazed 
with  calm,  steadfast  faces  upon  the  white,  sunlit 
world.  To-day,  as  the  light  filled  up  the  cracks 
that  wrinkled  their  hard  faces,  they  seemed  to 
smile,  as  if  the  Christmas  joy  had  somehow  moved 
something  in  their  old,  stony  hearts. 

The  people  were  all  there — farmers,  ranchers, 
cowboys,  wives  and  children — all  happy,  all  proud 
of  their  new  church,  and  now  all  expectant,  wait- 
ing for  The  Pilot  and  the  Old  Timer,  who  were  to 
drive  down  if  The  Pilot  was  fit  and  were  to  bring 
Gwen  if  the  day  was  fine.  As  the  time  passed 
on,  Bill,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  began  to  grow 
uneasy.  Then  Indian  Joe  appeared  and  handed 
a  note  to  Bill.  He  read  it,  grew  gray  in  the  face 
and  passed  it  to  me.  Looking,  I  saw  in  poor, 


How  the  Church  Was  Opened         281 

wavering  lines  the  words,  "Dear  Bill.  Go  on 
with  the  opening.  Sing  the  Psalm,  you  know  the 
one,  and  say  a  prayer,  and  oh,  come  to  me  quick, 
Bill.  Your  Pilot." 

Bill  gradually  pulled  himself  together, 
announced  in  a  strange  voice,  "The  Pilot  can't 
come,"  handed  me  the  Psalm,  and  said: 

"Make  them  sing." 

It  was  that  grand  Psalm  for  all  hill  peoples,  "I 
to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes,"  and  with  wonder- 
ing faces  they  sang  the  strong,  steadying  words. 
After  the  Psalm  was  over  the  people  sat  and 
waited.  Bill  looked  at  the  Hon.  Fred  Ashley, 
then  at  Robbie  Muir,  then  said  to  me  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Kin  you  make  a  prayer?" 

I  shook  my  head,  ashamed  as  I  did  so  of  my 
cowardice. 

Again  Bill  paused,  then  said: 

"The  Pilot  says  there's  got  to  be  a  prayer. 
Kin  anyone  make  one?" 

Again  dead,  solemn  silence. 

Then  Hi,  who.  was  near  the  back,  said,  coming 
to  his  partner's  help: 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  trying,  yourself, 
Bill?" 


282  The  Sky  Pilot 

The  red  began  to  come  up  in  Bill's  white  face. 

"  'Taint  in  my  line.  But  The  Pilot  says 
there's  got  to  be  a  prayer,  and  I'm  going  to  stay 
with  the  game."  Then,  leaning  on  the  pulpit,  he 
said: 

"Let's  pray,"  and  began: 

"God  Almighty,  I  ain't  no  good  at  this,  and 
perhaps  you'll  understand  if  I  don't  put  things 
right."  Then  a  pause  followed,  during  which  I 
heard  some  of  the  women  beginning  to  sob. 

"What  I  want  to  say,"  Bill  went  on,  "is,  we're 
mighty  glad  about  this  church,  which  we  know 
it's  you  and  The  Pilot  that's  worked  it.  And 
we're  all  glad  to  chip  in." 

Then  again  he  paused,  and,  looking~up,  I  saw 
his  hard,  gray  face  working  and  two  tears  steal- 
ing down  his  cheeks.  Then  he  started  again: 

"But  about  The  Pilot — I  don't  want  to  persoom 
— but  if  you  don't  mind,  we'd  like  to  have  him 
stay — in  fact,  don't  see  how  we  kin  do  without 
him — look  at  all  the  boys  here;  he's  just  getting 
his  work  in  and  is  bringin'  'em  right  along,  and, 
God  Almighty,  if  you  take  him  away  it  might  be 
a  good  thing  for  himself,  but  for  us — oh,  God," 
the  voice  quivered  and  was  silent.  "Amen." 

Then  someone,  I  think  it  must  have  been  the 


How  the  Church  Was  Opened         283 

Lady  Charlotte,  began:    "Our  Father,"  and  all 
joined   that  could  join,  to  the  end.     For  a  few 
moments  Bill  stood  up,  looking  at  them  silently. 
Then,  as  if  remembering  his  duty,  he  said: 
"This  here  church  is  open.     Excuse  me." 
He  stood  at  the  door,  gave  a  word  of  direction 
to  Hi,  who  had  followed  him  out,  and  leaping  on 
his  bronco  shook  him  out  into  a  hard  gallop. 

The  Swan  Creek  Church  was  opened.  The 
form  of  service  may  not  have  been  correct,  but, 
if  great  love  counts  for  anything  and  appealing 
faith,  then  all  that  was  necessary  was  done. 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

THE  PILOT'S  LAST  PORT 

In  the  old  times  a  funeral  was  regarded  in  the 
Swan  Creek  country  as  a  kind  of  solemn  festivity. 
In  those  days,  for  the  most  part,  men  died  in 
their  boots  and  were  planted  with  much  honor 
and  loyal  libation.  There  was  often  neither 
shroud  nor  coffin,  and  in  the  Far  West  many  a 
poor  fellow  lies  as  he  fell,  wrapped  in  his  own  or 
his  comrade's  blanket. 

It  was  the  manager  of  the  X  L  Company's 
ranch  that  introduced  crape.  The  occasion  was 
the  funeral  of  one  of  the  ranch  cowboys,  killed 
by  his  bronco,  but  when  the  pall-bearers  and 
mourners  appeared  with  bands  and  streamers  of 
crape,  this  was  voted  by  the  majority  as  "too 
gay."  That  circumstance  alone  was  sufficient  to 
render  that  funeral  famous,  but  it  was  remem- 
bered, too,  as  having  shocked  the  proprieties  in 
another  and  more  serious  manner.  No  one  would 
be  so  narrow-minded  as  to  object  to  the  custom 

of  the  return  procession  falling  into  a  series  of 

287 


288  The  Sky  Pilot 

horse-races  of  the  wildest  description,  and  ending 
up  at  Latour's  in  a  general  riot.  But  to  race  with 
the  corpse  was  considered  bad  form.  The  "corpse- 
driver,"  as  he  was  called,  could  hardly  be  blamed 
on  this  occasion.  His  acknowledged  place  was  at 
the  head  of  the  procession,  and  it  was  a  point  of 
honor  that  that  place  should  be  retained  The 
fault  clearly  lay  with  the  driver  of  the  X  L  ranch 
sleigh,  containing  the  mourners  (an  innovation, 
by  the  way),  who  felt  aggrieved  that  Hi  Kendal, 
driving  the  Ashley  team  with  the  pall-bearers 
(another  innovation),  should  be  given  the  place 
of  honor  next  the  corpse.  The  X  L  driver 
wanted  to  know  what,  in  the  name  of  all  that  was 
black  and  blue,  the  Ashley  Ranch  had  to  do  with 
the  funeral?  Whose  was  that  corpse,  anyway? 
Didn't  it  belong  to  the  X  L  ranch?  Hi,  on  the 
other  hand,  contended  that  the  corpse  was  in 
charge  of  the  pall-bearers.  "It  was  their  duty  to 
see  it  right  to  the  grave,  and  if  they  were  not  on 
hand,  how  was  it  goin'  to  get  there?  They  didn't 
expect  it  would  git  up  and  get  there  by  itself,  did 
they?  Hi  didn't  want  no  blanked  mourners 
foolin'  round  that  corp  till  it  was  properly 
planted;  after  that  they  might  git  in  their  work." 
But  the  X  L  driver  could  not  accept  this  view, 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  289 

and  at  the  first  opportunity  slipped  past  Hi  and 
his  pall-bearers  and  took  the  place  next  the  sleigh 
that  carried  the  coffin.  It  is  possible  that  Hi 
might  have  borne  with  this  affront  and  loss  of 
position  with  even  mind,  but  the  jeering  remarks 
of  the  mourners  as  they  slid  past  triumphantly 
could  not  be  endured,  and  the  next  moment  the 
three  teams  were  abreast  in  a  race  as  for  dear 
life.  The  corpse-driver,  having  the  advantage  of 
the  beaten  track,  soon  left  the  other  two  behind 
running  neck  and  neck  for  second  place,  which 
was  captured  finally  by  Hi  and  maintained  to  the 
grave  side,  in  spite  of  many  attempts  on  the  part 
of  the  X  L's.  The  whole  proceeding,  however, 
was  considered  quite  improper,  and  at  Latour's, 
that  night,  after  full  and  bibulous  discussion,  it 
was  agreed  that  the  corpse-driver  fairly  dis- 
tributed the  blame.  "For  his  part," he  said,  "he 
knew  he  hadn't  ought  to  make  no  corp  git  any 
such  move  on,  but  he  wasn't  goin'  to  see  that 
there  corp  take  second  place  at  his  own  funeral. 
Not  if  he  could  help  it.  And  as  for  the  others,  he 
thought  that  the  pall-bearers  had  a  blanked  sight 
more  to  do  with  the  plantin'  than  them  giddy 
mourners." 

But  when  they  gathered  at  the  Meredith  ranch 


290  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  carry  out  The  Pilot  to  his  grave  it  was  felt  that 
the  Foothill  Country  was  called  to  a  new  experi- 
ence. They  were  all  there.  The  men  from  the 
Porcupine  and  from  beyond  the  Fort,  the  Police 
with  the  Inspector  in  command,  all  the  farmers 
for  twenty  miles  around,  and  of  course  all  the 
ranchers  and  cowboys  of  the  Swan  Creek  country. 
There  was  no  effort  at  repression.  There  was  no 
need,  for  in  the  cowboys,  for  the  first  time  in 
their  experience,  there  was  no  heart  for  fun. 
And  as  they  rode  up  and  hitched  their  horses  to 
the  fence,  or  drove  their  sleighs  into  the  yard  and 
took  off  the  bells,  there  was  no  loud-voiced  salu- 
tation, no  guying  nor  chaffing,  but  with  silent  nod 
they  took  their  places  in  the  crowd  about  the  door 
or  passed  into  the  kitchen. 

The  men  from  the  Porcupine  could  not  quite 
understand  the  gloomy  silence.  It  was  some- 
thing unpier.edented  in  a  country  where  men 
laughed  all  care  to  scorn  and  saluted  death  with 
a  nod.  But  they  were  quick  to  read  signs,  and 
with  characteristic  courtesy  they  fell  in  with  the 
mood  they  could  not  understand.  There  is  no 
man  living  so  quick  to  feel  your  mood,  and  so 
ready  to  adapt  himself  to  it,  as  is  the  true 
Westerner. 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  291 

This  was  the  day  of  the  cowboy's  grief.  To 
the  rest  of  the  community  The  Pilot  was 
preacher;  to  them  he  was  comrade  and  friend. 
They  had  been  slow  to  admit  him  to  their  confi- 
dence, but  steadily  he  had  won  his  place  with 
them,  till  within  the  last  few  months  they  had 
come  to  count  him  as  of  themselves.  He  had 
ridden  the  range  with  them ;  he  had  slept  in  their 
shacks  and  cooked  his  meals  on  their  tin  stoves ; 
and,  besides,  he  was  Bill's  chum.  That  alone 
was  enough  to  give  him  a  right  to  all  they  owned. 
He  was  theirs,  and  they  were  only  beginning  to 
take  full  pride  in  him  when  he  passed  out  from 
them,  leaving  an  emptiness  in  their  life  new  and 
unexplained.  No  man  in  that  country  had  ever 
shown  concern  for  them,  nor  had  it  occurred  to 
them  that  any  man  could,  till  The  Pilot  came.  It 
took  them  long  to  believe  that  the  interest  he 
showed  in  them  was  genuine  and  not  simply  pro- 
fessional. Then,  too,  from  a  preacher  they  had 
expected  chiefly  pity,  warning,  rebuke.  The 
Pilot  astonished  them  by  giving  them  respect, 
admiration,  and  open-hearted  affection.  It  was 
months  before  they  could  get  over  their  suspicion 
that  he  was  humbugging  them.  When  once  they 
did,  they  gave  him  back  without  knowing  it  all 


292  The  Sky  Pilot 

the  trust  and  love  of  their  big,  generous  hearts. 
He  had  made  this  world  new  to  some  of  them, 
and  to  all  had  given  glimpses  of  the  next.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  they  stood  in  dumb  groups  about 
the  house  where  the  man  who  had  done  all  this 
for  them  and  had  been  all  this  to  them  lay  dead. 

There  was  no  demonstration  of  grief.  The 
Duke  was  in  command,  and  his  quiet,  firm  voice, 
giving  directions,  helped  all  to  self-control.  The 
women  who  were  gathered  in  the  middle  room 
were  weeping  quietly.  Bill  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  but  near  the  inner  door  sat  Gwen  in  her 
chair,  with  Lady  Charlotte  beside  her,  holding 
her  hand.  Her  face,  worn  with  long  suffering 
was  pale,  but  serene  as  the  morning  sky,  and  with 
not  a  trace  of  tears.  As  my  eye  caught  hers,  she 
beckoned  me  to  her. 

"Where's  Bill?"  she  said.     "Bring  him  in." 

I  found  him  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"Aren't  you  coming  in,  Bill?"  I  said. 

"No;    I  guess  there's  plenty  without  me,"  he 
said,  in  his  slow  way. 

"You'd  better  come  in;  the  service  is  going  to 
begin,"  I  urged. 

"Don't  seem  as  if  I  cared  for  to  hear  anythin' 
much.     I  ain't  much  used  to  preachin',  anyway," 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  293 

said  Bill,  with  careful  indifference,  but  he  added 
to  himself,  "except  his,  of  course." 

"Come  in,  Bill,"  I  urged.  "It  will  look  queer, 
you  know,"  but  Bill  replied: 

"I  guess  I'll  not  bother,"  adding,  after  a 
pause:  "You  see,  there's  them  wimmin  turnin' 
on  the  waterworks,  and  like  as  not  they'd  swamp 
me  sure." 

"That's  so,"  said  Hi,  who  was  standing  near, 
in  silent  sympathy  with  his  friend's  grief. 

I  reported  to  Gwen,  who  answered  in  her  old 
imperious  way,  "Tell  him  I  want  him. "  I  took 
Bill  the  message. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  before?"  he  said,  and, 
starting  up,  he  passed  into  the  house  and  took  up 
his  position  behind  Owen's  chair.  Opposite,  and 
leaning  against  the  door,  stood  The  Duke,  with  a 
look  of  quiet  earnestness  on  his  handsome  face. 
At  his  side  stood  the  Hon.  Fred  Ashley,  and 
behind  him  the  Old  Timer,  looking  bewildered 
and  woe-stricken.  The  Pilot  had  filled  a  large 
place  in  the  old  man's  life.  The  rest  of  the  men 
stood  about  the  room  and  filled  the  kitchen 
beyond,  all  quiet,  solemn,  sad. 

In  Owen's  room,  the  one  farthest  in,  lay  The 
Pilot,  stately  and  beautiful  under  the  magic  touch 


294  The  Sky  Pilot 

of  death.  And  as  I  stood  and  looked  down  upon 
the  quiet  face  I  saw  why  Gwen  shed  no  tear,  but 
carried  a  look  of  serene  triumph.  She  had  read 
the  face  aright.  The  lines  of  weariness  that  had 
been  growing  so  painfully  clear  the  last  few 
months  were  smoothed  out,  the  look  of  care  was 
gone,  and  in  place  of  weariness  and  care  was  the 
proud  smile  of  victory  and  peace.  He  had  met 
his  foe  and  was  surprised  to  find  his  terror  gone. 

The  service  was  beautiful  in  its  simplicity. 
The  minister,  The  Pilot's  chief,  had  come  out 
from  town  to  take  charge.  He  was  rather  a  little 
man,  but  sturdy  and  well  set.  His  face  was  burnt 
and  seared  with  the  suns  and  frosts  he  had  braved 
for  years.  Still  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood,  his 
hair  and  beard  were  grizzled  and  his  face  deep- 
lined,  for  the  toils  and  cares  of  a  pioneer  mission- 
ary's life  are  neither  few  nor  light.  But  out  of 
his  kindly  blue  eye  looked  the  heart  of  a  hero, 
and  as  he  spoke  to  us  we  felt  the  prophet's  touch 
and  caught  a  gleam  of  the  prophet's  fire. 

"I  have  fought  the  fight,"  he  read.  The  ring 
in  his  voice  lifted  up  all  our  heads,  and,  as  he 
pictured  to  us  the  life  of  that  battered  hero  who 
had  written  these  words,  I  saw  Bill's  eyes  begin 
to  gleam  and  his  lank  figure  straighten  out  its 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  295 

lazy  angles.  Then  he  turned  the  leaves  quickly 
and  read  again,  "Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled 
.  .  .  in  my  father's  house  are  many  mansions." 
His  voice  took  a  lower,  sweeter  tone;  he  looked 
over  our  heads,  and  for  a  few  moments  spoke  of 
the  eternal  hope.  Then  he  came  back  to  us,  and, 
looking  round  into  the  faces  turned  so  eagerly  to 
him,  talked  to  us  of  The  Pilot — how  at  the  first  he 
had  sent  him  to  us  with  fear  and  trembling — he 
was  so  young — but  how  he  had  come  to  trust  in 
him  and  to  rejoice  in  his  work,  and  to  hope  much 
from  his  life.  Now  it  was  all  over;  but  he  felt 
sure  his  young  friend  had  not  given  his  life  in 
vain.  He  paused  as  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  till  his  eyes  rested  on  Gwen's  face.  I  was 
startled,  as  I  believe  he  was,  too,  at  the  smile  that 
parted  her  lips,  so  evidently  saying:  "Yes,  but 
how  much  better  I  know  than  you." 

"Yes,"  ne  went  on,  after  a  pause,  answering 
her  smile,  "you  all  know  better  than  I  that  his 
work  among  you  will  not  pass  away  with  his 
removal,  but  endure  while  you  live,"  and  the 
smile  on  Gwen's  face  grew  brighter.  "And  now 
you  must  not  grudge  him  his  reward  and  his  rest 

.  .  and  his  home. "  And  Bill,  nodding  his  head 
slowly,  said  under  his  breath,  "That's  so." 


296  The  Sky  Pilot 

Then  they  sang  that  hymn  of  the  dawning 
glory  of  Immanuel's  land, — Lady  Charlotte  play- 
ing the  organ  and  The  Duke  leading  with  clear, 
steady  voice  verse  after  verse.  When  they  came 
to  the  last  verse  the  minister  made  a  sign  and, 
while  they  waited,  he  read  the  words: 

"I've  wrestled  on  towards  heaven 
'Gainst  storm,  and  wind,  and  tide." 

And  so  on  to  that  last  victorious  cry, — 

**I  hail  the  glory  dawning 
In  Immanuers  Land." 

For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  the  singing  could 
not  go  on,  for  tears  were  on  the  minister's  face 
and  the  women  were  beginning  to  sob,  but  The 
Duke's  clear,  quiet  voice  caught  up  the  song  and 
steadied  them  all  to  the  end. 

After  the  prayer  they  all  went  in  and  looked  at 
The  Pilot's  face  and  passed  out,  leaving  behind 
only  those  that  knew  him  best.  The  Duke  and 
the  Hon.  Fred  stood  looking  down  upon  the  quiet 
face. 

"The  country  has  lost  a  good  man,  Duke,"  said 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  297 

the  Hon.  Fred.     The  Duke  bowed  silently.     Then 
Lady  Charlotte  came  and  gazed  a  moment. 

"Dear  Pilot,"  she  whispered,  her  tears  falling 
fast.  "Dear,  dear  Pilot!  Thank  God  for  you! 
You  have  done  much  for  me. ' '  Then  she  stooped 
and  kissed  him  on  his  cold  lips  and  on  his  fore- 
head. 

Then  Gwen  seemed  to  suddenly  waken  as  from 
a  dream.  She  turned  and,  looking  up  in  a  fright- 
ened way,  said  to  Bill  hurriedly: 

"I  want  to  see  him  again.     Carry  me!" 

And  Bill  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms  and  took 
her  in.  As  they  looked  down  upon  the  dead  face 
with  its  look  of  proud  peace  and  touched  with  the 
stateliness  of  death,  Gwen's  fear  passed  away, 
But  when  The  Duke  made  to  cover  the  face. 
Gwen  drew  a  sharp  breath  and,  clinging  to  Bill, 
said,  with  a  sudden  gasp: 

"Oh,  Bill,  I  can't  bear  it  alone.  I'm  afraid 
alone. ' ' 

She  was  thinking  of  the  long,  weary  days  of 
pain  before  her  that  she  must  face  now  without 
The  Pilot's  touch  and  smile  and  voice. 

"Me,    too,"   said    Bill,    thinking  of    the   days 
before  him.     He  could  have  said  nothing  better 
Gwen  looked  in  his  face  a  moment,  then  said : 


298  The  Sky  Pilot 

"We'll  help  each  other,"  and  Bill,  swallowing 
hard,  could  only  nod  his  head  in  reply.  Once 
more  they  looked  upon  The  Pilot,  leaning  down 
and  lingering  over  him,  and  then  Gwen  said 
quietly : 

"Take  me  away,  Bill,"  and  Bill  carried  her 
into  the  outer  room.  Turning  back  I  caught  a 
look  on  The  Duke's  face  so  full  of  grief  that  I 
could  not  help  showing  my  amazement.  He 
noticed  and  said: 

"The  best  man  I  ever  knew,  Connor.  He  has 
done  something  for  me  too.  ...  I'd  give  the 
world  to  die  like  that." 

Then  he  covered  the  face. 

We  sat  at  G wen's  window,  Bill,  with  Gwen  in 
his  arms,  and  I  watching.  Down  the  sloping, 
snow-covered  hill  wound  the  procession  of  sleighs 
and  horsemen,  without  sound  of  voice  or  jingle  of 
bell  till,  one  by  one,  they  passed  out  of  our  sight 
and  dipped  down  into  the  canyon.  But  we  knew 
every  step  of  the  winding  trail  and  followed  them 
in  fancy  through  that  fairy  scene  of  mystic 
wonderland.  We  knew  how  the  great  elms  and 
the  poplars  and  the  birches  clinging  to  the  snowy 
sides  interlaced  their  bare  boughs  into  a  network 
of  bewildering  complexity,  and  how  the  cedars 


The  Pilot's  Last  Port  299 

and  balsams  and  spruces  stood  in  the  bottom, 
their  dark  boughs  weighted  down  with  heavy 
white  mantles  of  snow,  and  how  every  stump 
and  fallen  log  and  rotting  stick  was  made  a  thing 
of  beauty  by  the  snow  that  had  fallen  so  gently 
on  them  in  that  quiet  spot.  And  we  could  see 
the  rocks  of  the  canyon  sides  gleam  out  black 
from  under  overhanging  snow-banks,  and  we 
could  hear  the  song  of  the  Swan  in  its  many 
tones,  now  under  an  icy  sheet,  cooing  comfortably, 
and  then  bursting  out  into  sunlit  laughter  and 
leaping  into  a  foaming  pool,  to  glide  away 
smoothly  murmuring  its  delight  to  the  white 
banks  that  curved  to  kiss  the  dark  water  as  it 
fled.  And  where  the  flowers  had  been,  the 
violets  and  the  wind-flowers  and  the  clematis  and 
the  columbine  and  all  the  ferns  and  flowering 
shrubs,  there  lay  the  snow.  Everywhere  the 
snow,  pure,  white,  and  myriad-gemmed,  but 
every  flake  a  flower's  shroud. 

Out  where  the  canyon  opened  to  the  sunny, 
sloping  prairie,  there  they  would  lay  The  Pilot 
to  sleep,  within  touch  of  the  canyon  he  loved, 
with  all  its  sleeping  things.  And  there  he  lies  to 
this  time.  But  Spring  has  come  many  times  to 
the  canyon  since  that  winter  day,  and  has  called 


300  The  Sky  Pilot 

to  the  sleeping  flowers,  summoning  them  forth  in 
merry  troops,  and  ever  more  and  more  till  the 
canyon  ripples  with  them.  And  lives  are  like 
flowers.  In  dying  they  abide  not  alone,  but  sow 
themselves  and  bloom  again  with  each  returning 
spring,  and  ever  more  and  more. 

For  often  during  the  following  years,  as  here 
and  there  I  came  upon  one  of  those  that  com- 
panied  with  us  in  those  Foothill  days,  I  would 
catch  a  glimpse  in  word  and  deed  and  look  of  him 
we  called,  first  in  jest,  but  afterwards  with  true 
and  tender  feeling  we  were  not  ashamed  to  own- 
our  Sky  Pilot. 


THE    KND 


DATE  DUE 


PRINT  ID  IN  USA. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000811  604    8 


